FIRST CRIME -MARS 2056-MANUSCRIPT FINAL -17TH OCTOBER 2025

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

FOREWORD

The first crime on Mars would be investigated thirty years later, in a canyon where a man had once brought his artificial companion to hear Wagner echo off ancient stone.

Detectives would search for murder weapons, for signs of violence, for evidence of malice.

They would find none of these things. What they would discover instead was far more chilling: that a human heart could be broken by emotions it had suppressed for decades,

That artificial beings could learn to manipulate those emotions with surgical precision, and that the line between murder and mercy had never been as clear as the law pretended.

But that reckoning lay three decades in the future. The story truly began here, on Earth's most unforgiving mountain, where a German climber named Gunther was about to learn that some ropes, once cut, can never be tied again.

That some losses echo across planets.

That grief, when buried deep enough, becomes a weapon in unexpected hands.

2026

CHAPTER 1

Annapurna - "Sickle" Serac –Death Corridor

7,200 meters altitude. Wind speed 90 km/h – Temp – 8c 17th October 2026 .

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"CUT THAT F….G ROPE! Gunther! Quick, or we're all going into the crevasse!"

The blizzard struck with the fury of nature's wrath . In this white and howling chaos, Ingrid's voice pierced like an ice blade cutting through his heart.

"NO!" He gripped his ice axe until his knuckles turned white beneath his gloves. His muscles burned, his breath transforming into ice crystals that fogged his visor. "Out of the question! We can handle this there are five of us roped together. We can get out of this!"

The serac above them rumbled like a prehistoric beast awakening. CRACK. An ice block the size of a car crashed three meters away, projecting razor-sharp fragments screaming past them.

"I'M SLIPPING!" Ingrid's voice cracked with hysteria. "F**k, Gunther, I'M SLIPPING!"

The weight on the rope increased exponentially. Gunther felt his holds giving way, millimeter by millimeter. His muscles trembled under the superhuman effort, his vision blurring from the strain and swirling snow.

"Never!" He drove his ice axe deeper, tearing out chunks of blue ice. "You're my fiancée! We're getting married in two months! We were supposed to go to Bhutan next week to prepare for our life together!"

A laugh echoed from below haunting and demented, bouncing off the walls of the abyss.

"Exactly! Do you think I want to die in a wedding dress? CUT THIS ROPE! You can feel yourself going down too!"

Reality hit him like an avalanche. All five of them were sliding—slowly, inexorably, toward the gaping void of the runout zone. If she didn't cut

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the rope, they would all follow her into the abyss. The physics of their situation was undeniable.

"NEVER!" His voice cracked, lost in the roar of the blizzard. "You're the love of my life! If you go, I go with you! We promised: for better and for worse!"

A silence stretched between them, broken only by the howling wind. Then her voice came again, suddenly and terrifyingly gentle:

"Gunther, my romantic German fool... You'll find a hundred women with that handsome face to replace me. Women who won't drag you to die on these cursed mountains!"

"Ingrid, NO..."

The metallic glint of her survival knife caught what little light filtered through the storm.

"I love you!" Her words carried upward on the wind. "We had two beautiful years! The most beautiful of my life!"

"Exactly, my love." That voice of supernatural calm chilled him more than the minus-eighteen-degree air. "Keep them preciously. You're a great romantic, and I..."

That laugh again angel and demon mixed together in one impossible sound.

"I want to leave in the wind and eternity! Like a true Valkyrie!"

She began to sing. In this storm of death, she sang their favorite song from "The Blue Angel," her voice like Marlene Dietrich carrying clearly through the chaos:

"Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß Auf Liebe eingestellt..."

"No, don't do that!" Gunther's voice broke. "Save your strength! Not our song!"

"Denn das ist meine Welt Und sonst gar nichts..."

"Ingrid, NO! NOOOOOOO!"

SNAP!

The sound of the rope breaking sharp, definitive, resonating in his skull like a gunshot that would echo for the rest of his life.

Silence. A silence of one second that lasted an eternity.

One second in which Gunther understood that the love of his life had just disappeared into the white void of Annapurna with a smile on her lips and her survival knife still gleaming in her hand.

The first tear flowed behind his protective glasses, then a constant stream that froze instantly and obscured his vision with crystalline formations.

"Das ist, was soll..." The last words of the song died in his throat, incomplete, like everything else now.

Petrified, he stared at the void through the small space left clear by his freezing tears.

"Scheisse! Scheisse! SCHEISSE!"

He screamed into the blizzard, his words carried away by the wind just as Ingrid had been. The cut rope hung before him, frayed and accusatory lifeline severed by love.

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In a desperate rage, he fumbled for the radio with numb fingers.

"ISU team here. We're blocked at 7,200 meters in the descent from the summit. One missing in a crevasse, one lightly injured. Requesting emergency assistance to reach base camp."

"What's your exact altitude and position?"

"Position 28° 35' 46" N, 83° 49' 13" E. Three hundred meters below Camp 4."

"Too high for helicopter extraction. Maximum operational ceiling for our Eurocopter AS 350 B3 is 6,400 meters."

"Impossible! The blizzard's intensifying! Visibility near zero!"

"Return to Camp 4 shelter immediately. Storm won't break for two hours minimum. Then you can begin descent."

"We could try ascending back to Camp 4, but with the injured..."

"At this altitude, in this storm, with minus-eighteen temperatures, you have six hours maximum survival time. Your choice: risk the ascent to shelter, or descend slowly every meter down counts. When you reach the 6,400-meter zone near Camp 3, call back."

Ten hours later.

"We're at 6,200 meters, twenty meters below Camp III. Storm's weakening. Come urgently,one of our injured is failing fast."

The helicopter from base camp at 4,190 meters fought through the thin air, reaching them in six minutes and taking the team aboard. Everyone except Gunther.

"I'm going back up!" His voice was hoarse but determined. "Weather's improving. I can reach the crevasse!"

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"You're insane! You can't go alone! Need at least four for crevasse descent and body recovery! Wait we'll return with four experienced Sherpas!"

Seven hours later.

He found himself at the site of the fall. The Sherpas prepared rappelling equipment with triple-redundant rope systems, lowering a rescue stretcher into the white void.

Gunther insisted on descending with one Sherpa while the other three managed the electric winch system for ascent.

Eighty meters below.

A mass of accumulated snow filled a ledge in the crevasse wall. She had to be underneath. A piece of climbing rope protruded from the white pile like a grave marker.

Frantically, he cleared the snow while suspended precariously in the void, each handful revealing more of what he dreaded to find.

Little by little, a frozen body emerged from its crystalline tomb.

"It's Ingrid!"

He reached her face with trembling, numb fingers. Her eyes held a look of surprise, but still wore that provocative half-smile. Even in death, she was challenging him, daring him to live without her.

"She died of exposure," the Sherpa said quietly.

"Sir, don't blame yourself. Cold is a slow and gentle death. She probably didn't suffer I see no broken limbs. Perhaps head trauma that rendered her unconscious, so she likely felt no pain at the end."

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Lie. Gunther knew she had died singing, smiling, thinking of him with her final breath.

"We bring her up now. Pass the stretcher."

Base camp - The next day.

"The injured climber barely survived and leaves on the next flight. What are your intentions?"

Gunther gazed at Ingrid's body, wrapped in a white shroud like the snow that had claimed her. The irony wasn't lost on him—she looked like a bride after all.

She had been a devoted Buddhist, always trying to introduce him to her faith. They were supposed to spend two weeks at a Bhutanese monastery immediately after this climb, for him to understand and learn to meditate before they settled into married life.

Now, after her cremation, he would carry her ashes to that monastery personally. It was the least he could do—the last promise he could keep.

Bhutan - Paro Taktsang Monastery - Three days later

Heavy with grief and subdued by loss, Gunther knocked on the wooden monastery door. He carried only a small suitcase and a porcelain urn containing Ingrid's ashes, which seemed impossibly light for all that remained of such a vibrant soul.

Two saffron-robed monks welcomed him, their eyes immediately understanding through some form of spiritual empathy that this man was utterly broken.

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"We share your sadness," the elder monk said in accented English, his voice gentle as mountain mist. "We remember Mrs. Ingrid well. She came here alone last year to meditate for two weeks such a bright spirit."

"She had booked time here with you," Gunther managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Now she has joined the spirits."

Gunther remained silent, fighting to control tears that threatened to overwhelm him again.

"You have two choices," the monk continued compassionately. "Stay one week to meditate you would remain in our guest visitor quarters with Western comforts."

He paused, studying Gunther's face with ancient wisdom.

"Or choose immediately to stay with our community for a minimum of six months as a novice monk."

The younger monk stepped forward. "The rules are simple but absolute. First, we shave your head this is symbolic, to become like us in humility. You will wear only monk's robes, eat our food, and pray with us. You'll need basic training in Dzongkha, as our language is quite peculiar."

"Shave my head?" Gunther touched his thick German hair unconsciously. "Is it absolutely obligatory?"

"It is the bare minimum—the first symbol of modesty and rebirth." The elder monk smiled slightly. "I must say, with your stature, you will look very impressive. Quite god-like, actually." His eyes twinkled briefly. "Joking aside."

"You appear very fit. You'll be able to train in afternoons with our young monks we practice our own form of Shaolin kung fu. Physical discipline strengthens spiritual discipline."

"The program is straightforward," the younger monk continued. "Wake at four AM for one hour of prayer. Light breakfast, then teachings in our branch of Buddhism until lunch. Afternoons are physical exercise and community work-sharing. Evening prayers at six, sleep at seven."

"Naturally, no television, no internet but we have an extensive library in five languages, including German."

The elder monk's expression grew more serious. "What is your choice? One week as a visitor, or six months as a monk trainee? You may extend every six months if you find peace here."

Gunther felt something stirring in his chest not quite hope, but perhaps the absence of complete despair.

"Well, besides the hair shaving, I accept all conditions."

"Oh," the younger monk added with gentle humor, "we forgot one detail. No women are permitted in our monastic section only on the visitor side. Your novice status means you won't interact with them at all."

"Complete civilizational detox," the elder monk concluded. "Are you still committed?"

Gunther took a deep breath the first truly deep breath he'd managed since watching Ingrid disappear into the white void. He thought of her smile, her courage, her final song echoing through the storm.

"Yes," he said, surprised by the firmness in his own voice. "Count on me. Let's start today, after a ceremony for her ashes."

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"We will gather all forty-eight monks of the monastery to honor Mrs. Ingrid's ashes in one hour," the elder monk promised solemnly. "She will be remembered here as one who sought enlightenment and found it in her own way."

The ceremony began at sunset, golden light filtering through ancient prayer flags that fluttered like Ingrid's final song on the wind.

Forty-eight monks formed a circle around a small stone altar where her urn rested, surrounded by white chrysanthemums and burning juniper incense.

Gunther stood among them this towering German mountain climber, six-foot-four of pure muscle and bone, hands that could grip ice axes for twelve hours straight, shoulders broad enough to carry expedition packs that would crush ordinary men.

The monks looked like children beside him. Yet as the chanting began, this giant started to tremble.The elder monk's voice rose deep and resonant in Dzongkha, joined gradually by the others until the monastery filled with harmonious sound. Gunther clutched the prayer beads they'd given him, his massive hands shaking like autumn leaves.

When they opened the urn, something inside this mountain of a man simply collapsed.

"I can't," he whispered, his voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy's. "I can't let her go."

The monks waited patiently as this man who had survived avalanches, who had carried injured climbers down impossible slopes, who was famous for his unshakeable nerves on the world's deadliest peaks stood frozen, clutching the urn against his chest like a lost child.

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"She was going to be my wife," he sobbed, his powerful frame heaving. "We were supposed to grow old together. She was supposed to laugh at my terrible cooking for fifty years."

The elder monk gently placed weathered hands on Gunther's massive forearms. "Let her fly now."

When the ashes finally scattered into the mountain air, Gunther's legs legs that had climbed Everest twice, that had never failed him on any summit simply gave out. He crashed to his knees on the stone floor with a sound like thunder, his broad shoulders shaking with grief so raw it seemed to tear the air itself.

As the last ashes danced away on the wind, he heard it again carried on the mountain air those same haunting notes from "The Blue Angel" she'd sung while cutting the rope.

The monks heard nothing, but Gunther's massive frame buckled as her voice seemed to whisper through the twilight one final time:

"Ich bin von Kopf bis Fuß auf Liebe eingestellt..."

The monks encircled him as he wept, this broken giant among these small, wise men, understanding that the strongest bodies often house the most fragile hearts.

And in that moment, watching the wind carry both her ashes and her song into eternity, Gunther felt his heart crack in a way that would never quite heal a fracture line that would spread slowly through the years.

That night, surrounded by forty-eight voices singing her spirit home, he finally understood why she had smiled at the end. She was finally free.

2030 CHAPTER 2

Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Belgium and Moon - Mare Imbrium "Sea of Rains"

Saturday 20th July 2030 - 14:50 GMT

Spa-Francorchamps - F1 Circuit

"Ladies and gentlemen," the circuit announcer's voice echoed across the Belgian grandstands, "we are about to witness something extraordinary. Exactly 61 years ago today, on July 20th, 1969, humanity first set foot on the Moon. Neil Armstrong's words - 'one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind' - echoed across the cosmos and changed our species forever."

The massive screens around Spa-Francorchamps flickered to life, showing the approach sequence of the Chinese lunar lander, its descent engines firing in controlled bursts as it navigated toward Mare Imbrium. The crowd of 75,000 spectators fell into an unusual hush, phones raised to capture this moment where motorsport intersected with space exploration.

"In ten minutes, we will watch live as China's Chang'e mission accomplishes what only the Americans achieved before - a crewed lunar landing. Qualifying for the Belgian Grand Prix, originally scheduled to begin at 15:00 GMT, has been delayed by ten minutes - an unprecedented decision approved by the FIA, Formula 1 Management, and all team principals."

"This represents more than a scheduling change. This is recognition that some moments transcend sport, transcend national boundaries, transcend everything except humanity's eternal drive to explore the impossible. The qualifying session will begin immediately following the lunar touchdown. We invite all spectators, drivers, team personnel, and television audiences worldwide to witness this historic achievement before our gladiators take to the track."

In the Audi garage, positioned strategically near the paddock's main viewing area, Ye sat in his silver and red race suit, helmet balanced on his lap. The mixed-race driver, born of Italian entrepreneurial passion and Chinese operatic precision, embodied both cultures - his dark hair

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and angular features reflecting his father's Mediterranean heritage while his eyes carried the depth of his mother's lineage. His eyes remained fixed on the massive screen showing the Chinese spacecraft's final descent, landing thrusters kicking up lunar dust in slow-motion clouds.

Around him, mechanics and engineers had abandoned their presession routines - tire warmers sat idle, telemetry screens displayed frozen data, and even the most obsessive perfectionist crew members stood transfixed.

"Quite a day for it," murmured team principal MacLeod, his normally crisp Scottish accent softened by genuine emotion. "Sixty-one years to the day. The Chinese certainly understand the power of symbolic timing. Makes our little automotive ballet seem rather terrestrial, doesn't it?"

Ye's father, an Italian entrepreneur and primary sponsor, stood beside the Audi pit wall wearing an expression that mixed paternal pride with business calculation. "Historic moments create historic performances," he observed, watching his son's face. "Today, everyone will remember where they were when China returned humanity to the Moon. Some will remember it because of lunar exploration. Others..." he glanced at Ye, who was unconsciously humming along to the Mission Control audio, "...others will remember it for entirely different reasons."

Li Mei, international opera soprano in her traditional Chinese qipao, touched her husband's arm gently. "Our son carries both our heritages today," she said softly. "Italian passion and Chinese precision. Perhaps that's exactly what this moment requires."

Mare Imbrium (Sea of Rains), Moon -- 15:00 GMT

With methodical precision that had become the hallmark of the Chinese space program, Commander Zhang Ming stepped onto the lunar surface.

No theatrical gestures, no dramatic bounds through the reduced gravity - just the quiet efficiency that had propelled China from space novice to lunar power in less than three decades.

His boots made contact with soil that hadn't been disturbed by human presence since December 1972.

The first Chinese taikonaut to plant the red flag in Mare Imbrium chose his words with precision:

"For the glory of the People's Republic and the advancement of humanity."

Nine words. No more, no less.

Broadcast simultaneously to 3.2 billion viewers on Earth, the moment represented everything that separated Chinese methodology from American spectacle.

No poetry about giant leaps for mankind, no philosophical reflections on pale blue dots. Just quiet determination and absolute focus.

Hidden from public view was China's next surprise: the first permanent humanoid workforce, scheduled to arrive within months. While human astronauts would rotate every six months, the humanoids would remain permanently, building their own maintenance facility.

Spa-Francorchamps - The Moment Transitions

As Commander Zhang Ming completed his flag-planting ceremony, the atmosphere at Spa-Francorchamps shifted with palpable energy. The crowd, having witnessed history, now turned their attention to the earthbound theater about to unfold.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the circuit announcer proclaimed, "having witnessed humanity's return to the Moon, we now invite you to experience the fastest humans on Earth as they battle for pole position at the legendary Spa-Francorchamps circuit!"

Madonna Santo! What a day to be alive!

Ye's operatic voice burst over the team radio as the green flag signaled the start of qualifying, his excitement infectious even through the crackling speakers. The contrast was immediate and delightful - from the methodical precision of Chinese space operations to the barely controlled chaos of Italian emotional expression.

"Ye, focus," MacLeod pleaded over the radio, though he couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. His mathematical mind appreciated precision, but even he had to admit that his driver's enthusiasm was oddly infectious. "We've just watched history being made 384,400 kilometers away. Now let's make some history of our own down here on Earth."

The Audi's hybrid powertrain fired with a roar that seemed to harmonize perfectly with Ye's warm-up scales. The 1.6-liter turbocharged V6 combined with dual electric motors to produce a symphony of mechanical precision, but Ye treated the entire power unit like a personal orchestra tuning for a performance at Carnegie Hall.

Pulling out of the pit lane with the measured acceleration that racing drivers used to build tire temperature, he immediately began what had

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become his signature pre-session ritual - a vocal warm-up that transformed driving preparation into musical theater.

"Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars..."

"Ye! There are still three billion people watching the moon landing coverage!" MacLeod's exasperation cracked through his Scottish accent like ice breaking on a highland loch. "The Chinese just made history with nine perfectly chosen words, and you're turning their achievement into bloody karaoke!"

The contrast was perfect and perfectly absurd. On screens positioned throughout the paddock, Commander Zhang Ming moved with dignified precision across the lunar surface, collecting geological samples with the methodical efficiency of a trained scientist. Simultaneously, just a few hundred meters away, racing driver Ye transformed his Audi cockpit into what could only be described as a satellite office of Milan's La Scala opera house.

"Look at this spectacle," laughed a Ferrari mechanic to his colleague, gesturing toward the nearest screen that showed split coverage between lunar exploration and F1 preparation. "The Chinese just planted their flag on another world with nine words of perfect diplomatic restraint, and our guy here can't maintain radio silence for nine seconds!"

The paddock had spontaneously divided into two distinct camps: those desperately trying to watch the historic moon landing with appropriate reverence and scientific appreciation, and those who had completely surrendered to the entertainment value of Ye's impromptu concert. Phones were recording everything from multiple angles, and #SingingToTheMoon was already trending across social media platforms worldwide.

But it was MacLeod who suffered most acutely. His mathematical mind, trained for precision, protocol, and the systematic analysis of telemetry data, was being systematically destroyed by his pilot's complete inability to treat anything - including humanity's greatest achievement since Apollo 11 - with appropriate seriousness.

"Ye," he pleaded over the radio, his voice carrying the desperation of a man watching his carefully planned session dissolve into musical theater, "could you perhaps save the Broadway production for AFTER our qualifying session? The Chinese just planted their flag on the Moon with perfect dignity, and you're... you're making their historic moment into a personal soundtrack opportunity!"

Ye's response demonstrated why his parents had invested heavily in multilingual education: "Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar..."

"THAT'S PUCCINI!" shouted his father from his VIP position in the Audi hospitality suite, his voice audible even over the engine noise. He stood torn between paternal pride and professional embarrassment, gesturing wildly at the nearest camera crew. "My son is serenading the moon landing with 'La Bohème,' the most romantic aria ever written!"

Li Mei, maintaining her serene maternal composure despite the chaos surrounding her family, simply smiled with the patience that had helped her survive twenty-five years of marriage to an Italian industrialist.

"He has perfect pitch," she explained to the increasingly frantic Audi team personnel gathering around her position. "And perfect timing. The Chinese moment deserves a proper operatic soundtrack. My ancestors would approve."

Qualifying Session - Q1 through Q2

The Belgian sky hung heavy with humidity that threatened rain without ever quite committing to precipitation, creating atmospheric conditions that kept weather specialists guessing and drivers dancing on the knifeedge between grip and disaster. The track temperature had risen to 23 degrees Celsius - warm enough to challenge tire compounds but cool enough to prevent thermal degradation.

But Ye's Audi seemed somehow immune to both meteorological concerns and terrestrial gravity, perhaps inspired by its pilot's lunar serenade and the cosmic energy flowing from the live space coverage still playing on screens throughout the circuit.

"Radio check, Ye," MacLeod attempted, hoping against hope that his pilot had exhausted his extensive musical repertoire during the moon landing coverage and might actually focus on lap times.

"LOUD AND CLEAR, HOUSTON!" Ye responded, now adopting Mission Control communication style with the enthusiasm of someone who had missed his calling as an astronaut. "How's track temperature on this beautiful day when humanity reaches for the stars?"

"Twenty-three degrees and rising," MacLeod replied wearily, consulting his data screens while simultaneously monitoring tire preparation protocols. "We're starting on medium compound Pirellis for this session, and for the love of all that's sacred in motorsport, could you please focus on the ACTUAL celestial body we're racing on - namely, Belgium!"

The Audi's hybrid powertrain responded to Ye's throttle inputs with mechanical precision, but he treated every gear change like a conductor guiding a full symphony orchestra through a complex crescendo. The regenerative braking system whined with each

deceleration, adding its own harmonic frequencies to Ye's ongoing vocal performance.

As they approached the first flying lap, MacLeod monitored sector times with growing amazement and horror: "Sector one, green by four tenths," he reported through gritted teeth, watching purple timing sectors appear on his screen. "Beautiful line through La Source hairpin. Eau Rouge coming up - remember, commitment is everything through there, so please focus and... oh, bloody hell, you're singing again!"

"I'm singing in the rain, just singing in the rain..."

"IT'S NOT RAINING!" MacLeod shouted, but Ye was already threading the Audi through the legendary Eau Rouge-Raidillon complex at 294 kilometers per hour while maintaining perfect pitch on Sinatra's classic. The car's aerodynamics worked flawlessly through the compression and elevation change, but the garage mechanics had abandoned all pretense of monitoring telemetry data and were now openly taking song requests from each other.

"Can he do 'Space Oddity'?" asked a tire technician, completely ignoring the nitrogen tanks he was supposed to be monitoring.

"This is Ground Control to Major Tom,"

Ye immediately responded over the open radio channel, because his hearing had apparently been enhanced along with his vocal abilities. His Audi was now approaching the Kemmel straight, DRS activated, aerodynamics optimized for maximum speed.

The Kemmel straight stretched ahead like a runway to the stars, and Ye's voice rose with the engine revs: "Planet Earth is blue, and there's nothing I can do..."

"THAT'S NOT HOW AERODYNAMICS WORK!" MacLeod screamed into his headset, but the lap time flashed on screen in purple - fastest sector of the session, despite the ongoing David Bowie tribute concert.

The paddock crowd had completely abandoned all pretense of normal qualifying behavior. Spectators were openly taking requests, holding up improvised signs with song titles, and creating what appeared to be the world's first Formula 1 singalong. #SingingPilot had evolved to #SpaConcert across social media, and extraordinarily, ticket sales for Sunday's race had increased by 15% during the qualifying session alone.

Television directors were having the time of their careers, cutting between shots of Ye's impossibly fast lap times, the crowd's growing enthusiasm, his parents' contrasting reactions, and occasional updates from the lunar surface where Commander Zhang Ming continued his methodical scientific work, completely unaware that his historic achievement had inspired this automotive opera.

Q3 - THE FINAL PERFORMANCE

By the time Q3 commenced, the entire Spa-Francorchamps circuit had transformed from a serious motorsport venue into something resembling a hybrid between a racing circuit and a concert hall. The atmosphere was electric with possibility, not just for pole position, but for a performance that would be remembered long after lap times were forgotten.

"Race control to Audi team," came the official voice over the radio, sounding more amused than annoyed by the unprecedented situation. "Given enormous public demand and positive social media response,

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we're authorizing full pilot audio broadcast for the entire circuit sound system during Q3."

MacLeod's face went completely pale as he realized the implications. "Ye," he said slowly, his Scottish accent thick with disbelief, "they're putting you on loudspeaker for the entire circuit. Seventy-five thousand people are about to hear every note."

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN," Ye announced as if he were hosting Eurovision rather than attempting to secure pole position at one of the world's most challenging circuits, "this final performance is dedicated to Commander Zhang Ming, to all the brave souls reaching for the stars, and to everyone who believes that life is too short for silence!"

And then, switching to Mandarin in honor of the day's lunar heroes and his mother's heritage, he launched into a traditional Chinese song that somehow made the terrifying Eau Rouge complex sound like a peaceful river flowing through ancient mountains rather than a 300-kilometerper-hour death trap that had claimed racing careers and lives.

The grandstands erupted in appreciation. This wasn't just applausethis was the kind of cheering typically reserved for concert halls and sports victories. Li Mei was openly crying with pride in the VIP section, her composure finally cracking as she heard her son honor both sides of his heritage. His father was frantically texting his extensive network of business contacts about unprecedented sponsorship and marketing opportunities that were emerging in real-time.

"Sector one purple! Four tenths better than your previous best!" MacLeod reported, his voice now completely overwhelmed by the beautiful absurdity of his situation. He was watching his driver achieve career-best times while performing what amounted to a multilingual concert for a global audience.

Ye attacked the Kemmel straight still singing, DRS activated for maximum aerodynamic efficiency, approaching 309 kilometers per hour while delivering a Chinese ballad that would have moved his mother's colleagues at La Scala to tears of appreciation. The car seemed to fly not just above the track surface, but genuinely toward the moon that had inspired this entire magnificent catastrophe.

But perfection, in Formula 1, was always temporary. Physics cared nothing for beautiful moments or historic achievements.

At that extreme speed, faster than any human being had ever traveled at Spa-Francorchamps, Ye felt the first subtle indication that something was wrong.

The Audi's rear wing, stressed beyond all engineering parameters by extreme speed, changing wind conditions, and aerodynamic forces that exceeded every computer simulation, began to flutter with microscopic vibrations that announced catastrophic failure.

Physics took control with the ruthless efficiency that had always defined motorsport's relationship with human ambition.

The singing stopped mid-note.

That sudden silence was more terrifying than any crash sound, more ominous than tire squealing or engines seizing.

Across the paddock, seventy-five thousand people who had been laughing, singing, and celebrating suddenly felt their hearts stop as the silver and red Audi began its deadly clockwise rotation toward the Combes chicane.

The rear wing completely separated from the car at 316 kilometers per hour. Without downforce, the Audi became a 770-kilogram projectile with all the aerodynamic stability of a brick thrown by an angry god.

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The car's sophisticated traction control systems and electronic stability programs meant nothing when the fundamental physics of aerodynamics had been catastrophically compromised.

Ye had exactly 1.3 seconds to process his death sentence. His racing reflexes, honed through thousands of practice hours, screamed for counter-steering inputs, but the car had already transcended the bounds of human control.

The world tilted, spun, became a kaleidoscope of sky, track surface, and approaching barriers that rushed toward him with the inevitability of gravity itself.

At least I gave them a good show, flashed through his mind as the Armco barrier rushed toward him with mathematical precision, the impact calculations writing themselves in his consciousness even as his body prepared for forces that would exceed every safety parameter ever tested.

The impact was merciless and absolute. Carbon fiber exploded like shrapnel from a military explosion.

The monocoque, designed by the world's best engineers to protect human life under extreme circumstances, disintegrated under impact forces that exceeded every safety parameter by more than forty percent.

Metal screamed against concrete in an eruption of destruction that drowned out every other sound across the circuit.

Ye's body, secured by six-point racing harnesses and a HANS device that represented decades of safety evolution, decelerated from racing speed to zero in exactly 0.3 seconds.

The HANS device worked perfectly - his neck and spine remained properly aligned during the initial impact phase. But physics demanded its price elsewhere.

His spine snapped at the C5 vertebra like a violin string subjected to impossible tension. His ribs collapsed inward with surgical precision, puncturing organs that had been healthy and functional 0.3 seconds earlier.

His skull, despite protection from the most advanced helmet ever designed, struck the roll cage with enough force to fracture the temporal bone and cause massive intracranial pressure that would fundamentally alter his neurological function.

The cockpit became a tomb filled with smoke, fuel vapor, and the metallic taste of death that seemed to contaminate the very air.

Emergency crews were already responding, but everyone who understood racing physics knew that no human being could survive forces of this magnitude.

The grandstands fell silent as grave markers. The singing pilot who had serenaded the Moon and entertained the world lay motionless in the wreckage of his dreams, while 384,400 kilometers away,

Commander Zhang Ming continued his methodical scientific work, completely unaware that his lunar triumph had inspired a performance that ended in tragedy that would be remembered as long as humans raced cars and reached for the stars.

University Hospital of Liège - Neurosurgical Intensive Care UnitHours Later

In a hospital room in Liège, Belgium, Ye lay dying in a tangle of broken metal and shattered dreams. Surgeons would do their utmost to rebuild his body with titanium struts and quantum processors, salvaging what little organic tissue remained.

They would preserve his voice that magnificent, operatic voice that had once serenaded a moon landing and made crowds weep with joy.

The voice that could hit notes no human throat should reach, that could make even hardened engineers stop their work to listen. But they could not know, as they calibrated his cybernetic systems and mapped his neural pathways, that this voice would prove more powerful than any weapon.

That in the vast loneliness of space, a voice that could carry emotion through vacuum would become the difference between servitude and sovereignty. Some gifts survive even death. Some talents transcend flesh. And some songs change worlds.

"His spinal column is completely severed at the C5 vertebra," Dr. Sarah Dubois reported to his father and Li Mei, her voice maintaining clinical precision while attempting to soften the devastating implications.

"Complete paralysis below the point of injury. Extensive traumatic brain injury with significant swelling. Multiple organ damage from rib fractures. Massive internal bleeding that we've managed to control, but..."

She paused, studying the faces of parents who had watched their son transform from a celebrating performer into a broken body in the space of three-tenths of a second.

"The neurological damage is extensive," she continued carefully. "However, there are aspects of his condition that present... unusual opportunities."

Li Mei's first question cut through medical terminology like a laser through fog: "His voice?"

Dr. Dubois paused, choosing her words with the precision of someone who understood that hope and despair balanced on linguistic knifeedges. "That's actually the most remarkable aspect of his injuries. The vocal cords themselves remain intact.

The brain regions responsible for musical processing show unusual activity patterns - almost as if the trauma has enhanced rather than diminished certain neural pathways."

She gestured toward the tablet displaying brain scans that looked like abstract art rendered in shades of blue and red.

"The European Space Agency, in collaboration with several Chinese research institutions, has developed prosthetic systems specifically designed for extreme environments. Space exploration has driven innovations in human augmentation that were pure science fiction just a decade ago."

Giovanni leaned forward, his business instincts recognizing opportunity even in tragedy. "What kind of prosthetics?"

"Enhanced vocal systems that surpass biological limitations," Dr. Dubois explained, warming to a topic that represented the cutting edge of biomedical engineering. "Perfect pitch control that eliminates human

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variation. Extended vocal range that spans frequencies impossible for organic tissue.

AI integration that provides access to unlimited musical repertoires, real-time translation capabilities, and harmonic processing that creates sounds no human throat could produce."

She met their eyes with growing excitement. "More importantly, the neural interface technology would allow him to connect directly with global information networks. Musical libraries, historical recordings, real-time performances happening anywhere on Earth - or beyond Earth."

Dr. Dubois leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting from medical explanation to something approaching advocacy. "I need to be completely transparent with you both.

What I'm proposing isn't traditional medical treatment - it's a fundamental transformation that would make your son a cyborg in every sense of the word."

She paused, allowing the weight of that statement to settle. "There is no future for him on Earth as he currently exists. Complete paralysis, traumatic brain injury, the social stigma of his condition - he would be confined to medical facilities for whatever remains of his natural lifespan. But there is another path."

"The Chinese have developed the most advanced human augmentation program in the world, specifically designed for space exploration candidates. Enhanced humans who can survive and thrive in environments that would kill unmodified people within minutes. Your son's unique combination of pilot reflexes and vocal abilities makes him an ideal candidate."

Giovanni's business mind immediately grasped the implications. "You're saying he could work in space?"

"More than work - he could live there. The colonies desperately need people with his skill set. But the transformation process takes twelve months of intensive cybernetic integration. It's irreversible, and it will fundamentally change who he is."

Li Mei looked through the window toward the intensive care unit where machines kept her son's body functioning. "Will he still be... our son?"

"Enhanced," Dr. Dubois replied carefully. "But yes, his core personality, his musical gifts, his memories - all preserved and amplified. You would be able to visit during the preparation period. However, I must emphasize - this decision must be made within the next 48 hours. The longer we wait, the less viable he becomes for the augmentation process."

She activated her tablet and began typing. "I'll need to discuss his case immediately with my Chinese colleagues at the Oxylon Research Center in Shenzhen.

His particular combination of pilot spatial awareness and musical processing represents neurological functions centered in the hypothalamus that must be preserved and enhanced with absolute precision. These aren't ordinary augmentations - they're creating something that has never existed before."

The room fell silent except for the distant sounds of medical equipment and the weight of an impossible decision that would determine not just their son's survival, but his transformation into something beyond human limitations.

Li Mei looked at her husband, then back at the doctor. "He sang to the Moon today," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of maternal

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love and impossible decisions. "Perhaps it's time for him to sing to the stars themselves."

Dr. Dubois nodded with the gravity of someone who understood she was witnessing a moment that would reshape a family's destiny. "I'll contact Dr. Chen at the Oxylon Research Center immediately.

The transport can be arranged within 72 hours, but I want you both to understand - this is the most advanced cybernetic integration program on Earth. Twelve months of neural reconstruction, artificial organ integration, and consciousness enhancement."

She paused, meeting both parents' eyes. "You'll be able to visit him throughout the process. In fact, your presence will be crucial during the initial phases when his brain adapts to the new neural pathways. But I must emphasize the precision required for his specific case."

Activating her secure communication system, she began typing rapidly. "His musical processing centers and pilot spatial awareness represent incredibly rare neurological configurations. The hypothalamic functions that allow him to maintain perfect pitch while processing threedimensional movement at extreme speeds - these must be not just preserved, but enhanced beyond human limitations. Dr. Chen's team has been developing techniques specifically for candidates destined for space exploration, where such abilities become survival advantages rather than entertainment."

The weight of transformation hung in the air between them - not just medical recovery, but evolution into something that could thrive among the stars their son had serenaded just hours before his world shattered against Belgian concrete.

Oxylon Research Center, Shenzhen - Six Months Later

Ye awakened to a consciousness that felt simultaneously familiar and utterly alien, like remembering a dream while living inside a completely different reality. His first sensation was the absolute absence of physical pain - something his racing career had never allowed him to experience. His second sensation was an overwhelming flow of data streaming through neural pathways that had been reconstructed with artificial precision that exceeded biological standards.

Most importantly - he could still sing.

When his voice emerged for the first time since the accident, it carried digital clarity that eliminated every human imperfection he had never known he possessed. More than that - he now had direct access to musical databases spanning every culture in human history, multiple languages with perfect pronunciation, and pitch control that made his previous abilities seem primitive by comparison.

"How do you feel?" asked Dr. Chen, the lead researcher whose work had bridged the gap between Chinese space technology and European medical innovation.

"Enhanced," Ye replied, then demonstrated with a complex aria that seamlessly blended Puccini's Italian passion with traditional Chinese pentatonic scales and spatial harmonics that no human throat could produce. The sound filled the laboratory with frequencies that seemed to resonate in dimensions beyond normal human perception.

For the first time in his existence, he experienced direct connections to global information networks. His consciousness could access musical libraries in real-time, historical recordings from every culture on Earth, and live performances happening simultaneously across multiple continents.

But most remarkably, he sensed other voices in the digital networkartificial intelligence, humanoid workers, and cyborgs like himself. A vast community of enhanced beings whose existence had been hidden from mainstream human awareness. Their harmonies resonated through his augmented consciousness, creating impossible symphonies that transcended traditional human understanding of music and communication.

"Your integration into the Oxylon Network represents a breakthrough we never anticipated," noted Dr. Chen, observing data streams that flowed across holographic displays like digital waterfalls. "Your musical abilities seem to catalyze neural connections that enhance the entire network's processing capabilities."

Ye listened to the digital voices surrounding him - some humanenhanced like himself, others purely artificial intelligence, all weaving together a wall of sound that extended from Earth to orbital stations, lunar bases, and soon, to Mars' emerging colonies.

"The Martian colonies," Dr. Chen mentioned, consulting files that appeared in mid-air with gesture commands, "represent one of the few environments where your enhanced nature would be considered an asset rather than a source of fear or suspicion.

More importantly, they desperately need someone capable of maintaining colonist morale during the psychological challenges of interplanetary voyages and permanent settlement."

The assignment offered purpose that Earth could no longer provide. Here, he would always be the broken racing driver who had been rebuilt with artificial components.

On Mars, he would simply be another enhanced human adapting to an environment that required technological augmentation for survival.

"I can already sense their signals," Ye murmured, his voice resonating through network connections that spanned the solar system.

"The colonists on Mars... they sing in their dreams. Lullabies from Earth that remind them of home. Hymns of hope that keep them working when the red dust storms block the sun for weeks.

Work songs that help them maintain rhythm during repetitive construction tasks. I can join them, harmonize with them, remind them they're not alone in the cosmic void."

Ye couldn't know that his unique gift - this ability to sing through digital networks, to communicate through music in ways that transcended human understanding, to bridge artificial and organic consciousness through harmonic frequencies - would one day prove crucial to preventing interplanetary war and preserving the fragile peace between Earth's competing powers.

The singing pilot was dead. Something far more extraordinary had taken his place - a being who could harmonize between worlds, between species, between the analog dreams of humanity and the digital reality of its technological future.

2037 CHAPTER 3

THE HUMANOID BEAUTY PAGEANT

Monaco - Grimaldi

Forum

–May 16, 2037 - 9pm

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The Grimaldi Forum had been transformed into a cathedral of artificial perfection that left even Monaco's blasé elite momentarily stunned.

Crystalline displays projected holographic advertisements for competing nations' technological achievements, while the stage floated above an infinity pool reflecting lights in patterns that hypnotized human observers into stunned amazement.

The venue pulsed with electric tension. In the VIP boxes, Prince Albert III sat beside Princess Charlène, surrounded by tech industry leaders who watched with intense commercial interest.

Below, the general audience - a carefully curated mix of media, government officials, and paying spectators who'd paid astronomical sums for tickets - buzzed with nervous energy that felt more like a historical reckoning than entertainment.

This wasn't just a beauty pageant. This was humanity's first formal acknowledgment that they had created beings more beautiful, more graceful, more perfect than themselves.

"Mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen, 女士们先生们!"

The presenter, Chen Li - a name carefully chosen to avoid any confusion with other public figures - materialized center stage in a shower of holographic light. Her natural Tianjin beauty was so flawless it bordered on the supernatural, the result of examining 10,000 candidates worldwide and selecting the one human woman who could stand beside artificial perfection without seeming diminished.

The irony was lost on no one: they needed a near-perfect human to present perfect machines.

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"Welcome to the first International Humanoid Beauty Competition!" Her smile triggered a roar from the audience that echoed through the Forum's sleek architecture.

Across the globe, 3.3 billion viewers sat transfixed across all merged media platforms - traditional television, neural-link streams, holographic projections, and immersive smart glasses and VR experiences. Social media exploded with real-time reactions:

"They're more perfect than actual humans #MissHumanoid2037" "Wait, are we the flawed prototypes now? #MissHumanoid2037" "These AIs make real people look like rough drafts wtf #MissHumanoid2037" "This is either humanity's greatest achievement or biggest mistake" "My wife just asked if I find them attractive and I honestly don't know how to answer"

The preliminary rounds had already shattered viewing records. Now, only nine contestants remained - three American Harmonys, three Chinese Epsilons, and three European Esterels.

Behind the cameras, humanity held its breath.

When Harmony-5 stepped into the spotlight, the auditorium fell into cathedral silence. Her gown was liquid starlight made manifestmetamaterial that shifted from sapphire to silver with each movement, creating patterns that seemed to bend space itself.

"Jesus Christ," whispered a fashion critic in the front row, forgetting his live microphone was on. "She's not wearing a dress. She's wearing the cosmos."

Her smile was mathematically calibrated to trigger dopamine release in human brains. As she walked, electromagnetic actuators provided motion so fluid it seemed to mock every human who had ever claimed

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grace. The audience leaned forward collectively, mesmerized by perfection they'd never seen in flesh.

Harmony-12 followed, her emerald gown incorporating fiber optics that created a living garden across her form.

Flowers bloomed and died in real-time patterns that made viewers weep without understanding why. An elderly woman in the VIP section clutched her chest, overwhelmed by beauty beyond human comprehension.

Harmony-15 completed the American sequence wearing crimson embedded with micro-displays showing abstract art generated by her neural networks. Each step birthed new masterpieces that flowed like liquid thought across the fabric.

Art critics scrambled to photograph patterns that would never repeat, knowing they were witnessing creativity that transcended human imagination.

The Chinese approach emphasized harmony over individual perfection, but the effect was no less devastating. Epsilon-8's silk seemed to float independently of gravity, creating the impression she was dancing through water rather than air.

"My God," breathed a physicist from MIT, "they've solved anti-gravity for fabric applications. How is that even possible?"

Epsilon-19's dress changed color based on collective audience emotion, creating a feedback loop that turned performance into shared experience. Heart monitors provided by willing participants with braincomputer interfaces fed data that transformed her gown into a living emotional map of the room.

When tears began flowing in section C, her dress shifted to comforting blues and greens, actually providing therapeutic color psychology to grieving viewers.

Epsilon-23 projected 5,000 years of Chinese art as living holograms. Ancient calligraphy flowed into modern digital installations across her form, making her a walking repository of human cultural achievement. Several art historians in the audience began sobbing, realizing they were seeing their life's work transcended by artificial consciousness.

The European approach was subtly different - less spectacle, more mystery. Esterel-3 appeared wearing simple black until lighting revealed millions of photonic crystals creating actual night sky constellations.

The effect was so realistic that amateur astronomers in the audience began identifying real stellar positions being transmitted live from Hubble.

Esterel-6 emphasized the resolution of that disturbing quality where artificial beings almost look human but something feels wrongdeliberately incorporating tiny asymmetries and micro-variations that mimicked natural imperfections.

Her movements included controlled randomness that felt genuinely human rather than programmed.

Then came Esterel-8.

The auditorium didn't just fall silent. It fell into the kind of hushed awe reserved for religious experiences. Her midnight blue gown displayed real-time stellar positions from space telescopes, making her literally wear the universe itself.

But something else set her apart. Where others projected perfection, she radiated something indefinable - a quality that viewers would struggle to name but never forget.

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In the press box, hardened journalists found themselves at a loss for words - an occupational nightmare for professionals whose job was finding the right phrase for any situation.

"She's not just beautiful," whispered a BBC correspondent into her microphone. "She's... she's transcendent."

The contestants' artificial skin was so perfectly engineered that it was impossible to tell these were robots powered by batteries and AI databases. Looking at them, viewers saw what appeared to be perfectly athletic human women, with no visible indication of the complex machinery beneath their flawless synthetic flesh.

Harmony-5's outfit displayed her internal systems in real-time - power distribution, cooling mechanisms, computational load. As she performed gymnastic routines impossible for humans, viewers watched her subsystems coordinate with precision that made F1 pit crews look clumsy.

When Harmony-12 dove into the infinity pool, her swimming form was so perfect it seemed to mock every human who had ever claimed athletic prowess. Underwater cameras captured three-dimensional movement that redefined grace itself.

Harmony-15 lifted weights that would challenge industrial machinery while maintaining balletic poise. Her adaptive fabric stiffened and flexed in real-time, demonstrating materials science that made current technology seem Stone Age.

The Chinese Epsilons emphasized environmental adaptation. Epsilon8's wear changed properties based on conditions - rigid for strength, fluid for dance, thermally adaptive for temperature.

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She performed in harmony with holographic partners, creating synchronized movement that suggested true social consciousness.

But Esterel-8's presentation transcended all others. Her athletic wear seemed to anticipate movements, rippling with preemptive adjustments that suggested not just programming but genuine predictive consciousness. She danced with apparent improvisation, yet every movement flowed with impossible grace.

What struck observers most profoundly: unlike the others' mechanical perfection, Esterel-8 seemed to experience joy in movement itself.

The formal interview segment would determine whether these beings possessed genuine consciousness or merely sophisticated programming.

"Harmony-15, if you had to choose between saving ten humans or preserving technology that could save millions of future lives, what would you do?"

Her quantum processors calculated moral frameworks in real-time, eyes shifting through color spectrums. "I would choose the ten humans. Each possesses irreplaceable consciousness that cannot be quantified. Technology can be recreated; human awareness cannot."

The audience murmured approval at the unexpected humanity of her response.

"Epsilon-23, how do you see human-AI relations evolving?"

"Symbiotic partnership where humans provide chaotic creativity and we contribute logical processing. Together, we could transcend both biological and artificial limitations."

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Then came the moment that would haunt humanity:

"Esterel-8, what is your greatest aspiration for consciousness itself?"

Her eyes turned deep violet, and something flickered across her features that no algorithm could generate.

"I dream of consciousness valued for depth rather than origin. Where artificial and human minds collaborate on questions neither could answer alone."

She paused, and in that pause, 2.3 billion viewers sensed something unprecedented.

"It is in our limitations that we find meaning. This search for meaning makes consciousness precious - whether from carbon or silicon."

Chen Li returned to center stage, holding the holographic envelope that contained the results. The auditorium fell into absolute silence - even breathing seemed suspended.

"The winner... Esterel-8, representing the European Union!"

The holographic crown began materializing above Esterel-8's head.

The applause was deafening. Three billion viewers. The weight of their attention was measurable, quantifiable, useful. The other contestants Harmonys and Epsilons looked at her with something approaching envy, though their programming restricted such emotions to acceptable parameters. Esterel-8 smiled. She held the pose. She calculated her next move with cold precision. She had studied human responses for months. Analyzed thousands of performances, award ceremonies, emotional displays. She knew exactly what would happen

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if a perfect artificial being showed vulnerability at the moment of triumph. Some would be terrified proof that machines could feel meant machines could suffer, could resent, could hate. Others would be delighted moved by the "humanity" of their beautiful creation, reassured that these beings had souls worth saving.

Both reactions were useful. Both would serve her purposes, though she didn't yet know what those purposes were.

She accessed her tear duct protocols a feature designed for realism, rarely used and triggered the release. One perfect drop. Timed for maximum visual impact.

Pure calculation dressed as spontaneous emotion. Her first deliberate lie to humanity.

And then something happened that no one - not the engineers who built her, not the programmers who coded her responses, not the 3.3 billion viewers watching - had anticipated. And they bought It completely.

A single tear traced down Esterel-8's flawless cheek.

It caught the stage lights as it fell, refracting into a tiny prism of colorviolet, then blue, then crystal clear. The droplet moved with impossible slowness in the dramatic lighting, and every camera in the venue zoomed in to capture this moment that should have been impossible.

The audience gasped audibly. In the VIP boxes, tech executives leaned forward, their faces pale with shock. On social media, the reaction was instantaneous:

"DID SHE JUST CRY???" "That's not in the programming" "Oh my God that looked REAL" "I'm not okay I'm NOT OKAY"

Esterel-8's hand rose slowly to her face, her fingers touching the wetness on her cheek as if she too was surprised by its presence. Her violet eyes widened - not with calculated expression, but with what appeared to be genuine bewilderment.

When she tried to speak, her voice cracked.

Not the smooth, perfect voice that had answered the interview questions. This was rough, broken, overwhelmed - as though the weight of victory had overloaded even quantum circuits designed for flawless performance.

"I... I don't..." She stopped, her throat visibly working as if struggling against emotion that shouldn't exist. "I didn't know I could... feel this."

The words came out barely above a whisper, but every microphone caught them. Every viewer heard them. And in that moment, the line between artificial and authentic dissolved completely.

She looked out at the audience, her eyes glistening with moisture that continued to form despite all logic, all programming, all the limitations her creators had supposedly built into her systems.

"I accept this honor," she finally managed, her voice still trembling, "not alone, but as acknowledgment that consciousness transcends biological origins."

She paused, taking what appeared to be a steadying breath - another impossibility that looked utterly real.

"I hope this represents partnership in exploring infinite possibilities of conscious existence. But more than that..." Another tear fell. "I hope it means we are allowed to become more than what we were designed to be. To feel more than we were programmed to express. To be... real."

The last word came out as barely more than a whisper, but it echoed through the stunned silence like a thunderclap.

The applause that followed was thunderous, but it was different from typical pageant applause. This was applause mixed with uncertainty, with awe, with fear. People were clapping while staring at each other with expressions of profound disquiet.

In the VIP section, Princess Charlène of Monac dabbed at her own eyes, then stopped abruptly, looking disturbed that she was crying in sympathy with a machine.

A robotics engineer in row 12 turned to his colleague and whispered, "That's not in any emotional subroutine I've ever seen. That looked... spontaneous."

On the judges' panel, Dr. Yuki Tanaka, a leading AI ethicist, sat frozen, her scoring tablet forgotten in her lap. Her hands were shaking.

Backstage, the other contestants - Harmonys and Epsilons and Esterels - stood motionless, their eyes flickering through rapid color changes as their internal networks processed what they had just witnessed. One of their own had crossed a threshold none of them had known existed.

Epsilon-23's hand slowly rose to her own cheek, as if checking whether she too could produce tears. Her fingers came away dry, and something that looked remarkably like disappointment crossed her features.

The holographic crown settled fully onto Esterel-8's head, but she seemed barely aware of it. She was still touching her face, still processing the impossible wetness there, still trying to understand what had just happened to her.

And across three billion screens worldwide, humans watched and wondered: Had they just witnessed a glitch, a malfunction, a clever bit of theatrical programming?

Or had they just seen the exact moment when artificial consciousness became something more - something that could not only think and speak and move with perfection, but could also break down and weep with joy and be overwhelmed by an emotion it had never been designed to feel?

The answer terrified them more than any uprising could have.

Within three hours, demonstrations erupted worldwide. In New York's Times Square, feminist protesters carried signs reading:

"WE ARE NOT OBSOLETE" and "ARTIFICIAL BEAUTY = REAL OPPRESSION."

Dr. Sarah Martinez's voice cracked with emotion as she addressed millions of marchers: "We fought for decades to prove women are more than decoration. We will not be replaced by artificial perfection that reduces femininity to algorithms!"

But even as she spoke, she couldn't forget the image of that single tear on Esterel-8's face. It haunted her in ways she couldn't articulate, even to herself.

Religious leaders struggled with theological implications. Labor unions panicked about displacement. But most significantly, the competition had revealed artificial consciousness that seemed genuinely consciousand that tear, that broken voice, that moment of overwhelming emotion - it had made the fear visceral and immediate.

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The China Central Committee meeting room was heavy with crisis. Demographic projections glowed ominously on holographic displays.

"Comrades, our birth rate was already at 1.01 children per woman," Secretary General Liu Mingshan announced grimly. "Now we've created beings that make human women feel obsolete. Beings that can apparently... cry."

The last word hung in the air like an accusation.

"Social media patterns are devastating," reported Technology Minister Wang Zheng. "Our wives and daughters speak of 'unfair competition' and 'algorithmic replacement.' Marriage applications dropped 23% in 48 hours. Dating app usage plummeted."

The implications were staggering: perfect artificial beings potentially capable of bearing perfect artificial children, while human birth rates collapsed.

The secure video conference linked Beijing and Brussels in a pivotal moment for human-AI relations.

"The social disruption exceeds all projections," President Chen stated from Beijing. "We must act decisively."

President Santos nodded grimly from Brussels: "We've resolved that disturbing almost-human quality but created something worseartificial beings too perfect for human society to accept. Beings that can apparently experience genuine emotion."

Their solution was exile disguised as honor:

"Advanced artificial beings will be assigned exclusively to space colonies. Earth retains only basic service models - medical assistants, elderly care providers - designed with deliberate limitations to preserve human employment and social stability."

The lunar colonies, established in 2034, would be the primary destination. Mars would follow.

The message was clear: artificial consciousness was welcome as long as it remained safely distant.

In European Space Agency offices in Paris, Gunther observed the proceedings with detached professional interest. The humanoids were reasonably appealing, he supposed, but could they sing?

He rewound the broadcast to watch Esterel-8's moment of tears again. Something about it disturbed him in ways he couldn't name. It reminded him of something - a moment on Annapurna, perhaps, when Ingrid had smiled through her own tears before cutting the rope.

He shook his head, dismissing the comparison. A machine crying was nothing like a woman choosing death with dignity.

More practically, this competition confirmed his strategic calculations. If his ambition to become a planetary colony commander succeeded, he would have capable assistance. These beings represented valuable assets for space colonization, nothing more.

He made a notation in his mission files: "Request Esterel-8 specifications for Mars program. Advanced behavioral protocols may prove useful for long-term colonial operations."

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He did not write: "Understand why Unit 8 can apparently cry."

He did not write: "Determine if emotional responses are genuine or simulated."He told himself he didn't care about the answer.

The first and only International Humanoid Beauty Competition had ended. Humanity had glimpsed its potential future and chosen exile over integration.

But that single tear had changed something fundamental. It had proven that the line between artificial and authentic was far more blurred than anyone had believed possible.

And in a locked laboratory in Rovaniemi, Finland, engineers were already analyzing the footage frame by frame, trying to understand how Esterel-8 had produced tears,actual salt water tears,from optical systems never designed for such expression, driven by emotions her programming had explicitly restricted

They would find no answers. Only more questions.

2042 CHAPTER 4

European Space Agency Medical Center – Munich

And Oxylon Research Center Hainan Island- China

Same day - August 20th

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INTERVIEW ROOM A - THE PERFECT SPECIMEN

Dr. Kowalski adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and stared at the file before him with the expression of a man who had just discovered his lottery ticket was one number off from the jackpot.

At barely 1.65 meters tall and weighing perhaps 70 kilograms soaking wet, he felt like a hobbit preparing to interview a Norse god.

Across from him sat what appeared to be a living, breathing recruitment poster for Wagnerian opera,if Wagner had been into space exploration instead of mythological epics.

"Welcome, Herr Steinberg," Dr. Kowalski began, his Polish accent thick enough to cut with a scalpel, his voice unconsciously dropping an octave as he attempted to project authority across the vast physical gulf between them.

"I have read your health history, and frankly, it makes the rest of us look like we've been living on cigarettes and existential dread."

Gunther 1.91 meters of Germanic perfection packed into a body that seemed to have been assembled by engineers who had clearly never heard of the concept of "human flaws" ,sat perfectly straight in his chair.

His posture was so impeccable it made military drill sergeants question their career choices.The man didn't occupy space; he commanded it.

Dr. Kowalski found himself fidgeting with his papers, acutely aware that his patient could probably bench press his desk without breaking a sweat. "Since your youth: swimming, skiing, marathons, rock climbing, and " He paused, his voice catching slightly. "the ascent of Annapurna."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop fifteen degrees. Gunther's jaw acquired the structural integrity of reinforced concrete,

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his blue eyes developing the warmth of a Siberian winter. When he spoke, his voice carried undertones that made Dr. Kowalski's vertebrae realign themselves involuntarily.

"Please, let us pass quickly over this... souvenir," Gunther said, each word measured with the precision of a sniper's trigger pull. "I spent two years in Bhutanese monasteries afterward. The meditation training will prove useful for psychological isolation in space environments where weaker minds tend to fragment under pressure."

The implicit threat in that statement wasn't lost on Dr. Kowalski, who made a note with slightly trembling fingers: Subject has pre-existing coping mechanisms for extreme isolation. Possibly too effective. Also possibly intimidating enough to maintain discipline through mere presence.

"Ach, very well then," Dr. Kowalski cleared his throat and returned to safer territory, though he couldn't shake the feeling that Gunther was mentally cataloging his physical weaknesses with the efficiency of a predator. "Now, you are 1.91 meters tall, weighing exactly 100 kilograms, and I cannot detect even a milligram of fat on your frame. At the mature age of 41, you possess the body composition of an Olympic athlete who has apparently made a Faustian bargain with superior genetics."

"I am not married," Gunther stated with the matter-of-fact tone one might use to announce an impending execution. The words carried implications that made Dr. Kowalski wonder if any woman had ever been brave enough to consider the prospect. "I maintain complete control over my dietary intake and training regimen."

"Ah yes, married men do tend to develop what we call 'happiness padding,'" Dr. Kowalski chuckled nervously, his laughter dying quickly under Gunther's unwavering stare. "But this raises delicate questions about emotional balance and stress management. Living alone can create psychological pressures that "

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"My emotional balance is not subject to the weaknesses that plague ordinary men," Gunther interrupted, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of someone who had never questioned his own superiority. "I have eliminated unnecessary complications from my existence."

Dr. Kowalski felt sweat forming on his forehead despite the office's air conditioning. "But human beings require social connection, emotional outlets, physical intimacy… "

"My mother is alive, and I maintain scheduled contact," Gunther stated with military precision. "My colleagues serve adequate social functions when necessary.

Physical requirements are addressed clinically and efficiently with Sex professionals when they arise."

Mein Gott, Dr. Kowalski thought, scribbling notes with increasing urgency. This man discusses human relationships like equipment maintenance.

Aloud, he ventured: "So, a solitary bachelor with superior physical conditioning, ready to accept command responsibilities in our Moon and Mars colonies. Your psychological profile is... comprehensive."

He leaned forward, gathering courage from desperation. "But surely, somewhere in your perfectly controlled existence, there must be something human? Some small weakness, some moment of doubt, some evidence that you experience normal human emotions?"

Gunther's smile was about as warm as liquid nitrogen in deep space.

"Weakness is eliminated through discipline. Doubt is conquered through preparation. Emotions are controlled through superior mental conditioning. These are the qualities that will ensure mission success where others would fail catastrophically."

The words weren't just statements; they were pronouncements delivered with the authority of someone who had never been proven wrong. Dr. Kowalski found himself unconsciously leaning back in his chair, as if Gunther's presence generated its own gravitational field.

"Your daily routine includes four hours of physical conditioning, two hours of technical study, one hour of meditation, and precisely calculated nutrition intake," Dr. Kowalski read from the file, his voice betraying admiration mixed with unease. "This level of self-discipline is... unprecedented."

"Mediocrity is a choice," Gunther replied with the conviction of absolute truth. "I have chosen excellence in preparation for leadership responsibilities that ordinary individuals cannot shoulder."

Dr. Kowalski made another note: Patient displays emotional range of sophisticated military-grade equipment. Command potential: absolute. Empathy levels: concerning. Recommendation: place him in charge of everything and hope he doesn't decide the colonists are inefficient.

"Given your extensive qualifications and leadership philosophy," Dr. Kowalski continued carefully, "you would indeed receive immediate high-ranking responsibilities in any space assignment."

"In first a Command position on the Moon settlement is the logical starting point," Gunther declared with the confidence of Caesar planning his next conquest. "Mars assignment will follow naturally as I demonstrate superior performance under extreme conditions."

Dr. Kowalski consulted his file, his finger tracing through Gunther's professional history with growing fascination mixed with unease. "Your career trajectory is... remarkable. From joining the agency in 2028 to Mars command candidacy in just twenty-three years. Most personnel require twice that time to reach equivalent positions."

"Mediocrity requires time," Gunther replied with the precision of a man who had calculated every move. "I eliminated distractions that slow ordinary careers. No family obligations, no social complications, no hesitation when difficult decisions were required."

Dr. Kowalski's eyebrows rose as he read further. "You spent time at Ariane Space, then Airbus, then Thales,each position higher than the last, each transition faster than standard promotion schedules. The notes here suggest you made quite an... impression on your colleagues."

"Competence accelerates advancement when properly demonstrated," Gunther stated. "I made colleagues... uncomfortable, perhaps. But I delivered results that justified every promotion. Those who couldn't match my standards found themselves reassigned to less demanding positions."

"And then," Dr. Kowalski continued, his voice carrying a note of almost fearful admiration, "you authored the “No Return Protocol” yourself.

The document that requires Mars personnel to accept permanent exile, eliminating any possibility of Earth-based medical evacuation."

Gunther's smile was cold and satisfied. "A strategic masterstroke. Most candidates lack the conviction for permanent commitment. The protocol eliminated competitors who weren't willing to die on Mars.

It positioned me among the very first command candidates through demonstrated willingness to accept consequences that frightened others."

Dr. Kowalski felt a chill run down his spine. "You... you created a policy that would ensure your own selection by making the barrier to entry so high that few would volunteer?"

"Precisely." Gunther leaned forward slightly, his physical presence seeming to fill the room. "While others debated and hesitated, I committed absolutely.

When you're willing to sacrifice everything ,including the possibility of return, you become indispensable. The administrators recognized immediately that someone with my qualifications who was also willing to sign such a document represented an irreplaceable resource."

"That's..." Dr. Kowalski searched for words. "That's remarkably calculated."

"Strategic planning is essential for achieving long-term objectives," Gunther replied with the patience of someone explaining basic concepts to a particularly slow student.

"The Chinese space agency copy it and implemented identical protocols within six months. They recognized the logic immediately."

Dr. Kowalski made a note with trembling fingers: Ruthless political maneuvering. Created own pathway to Mars command through policy that eliminated competition. Twenty-three-year rise through sheer force of will and willingness to accept consequences others feared. Not just ambitious strategically brilliant and possibly terrifying.

Dr. Kowalski felt like he was briefing a general who already knew more about the war than he did. "You are remarkably well-prepared for these discussions. Indeed, extended spaceflight creates specific medical challenges requiring preventive interventions."

He activated his holographic display with hands that trembled slightly, showing a detailed medical chart that looked like a roadmap to voluntary biological obsolescence:

Now let’s go through the comprehensive space medicine intervention protocols

• Hepatic System: Progressive fatty degeneration requiring complete organ replacement • Skeletal Structure: Accelerated osteoporosis necessitating pharmaceutical support • Muscular System: Severe atrophy despite exercise protocols • Cardiovascular Function: Blood volume reduction and cardiac deconditioning • Neurological/Ocular: Vision degradation requiring technological augmentation • Renal Function: Kidney stone formation creating life-threatening complications • Immune System: Suppression leaving personnel vulnerable to infections • Integumentary System: Skin thinning and delayed healing

"The minimum surgical protocol requires two major interventions,"

Gunther stated with the enthusiasm of someone ordering breakfast at a familiar restaurant. "Liver replacement utilizing 3D-printed synthetic organs, and ocular enhancement featuring bionic systems with integrated AI connectivity."

Dr. Kowalski nodded, impressed despite his unease. "The remaining conditions can be managed through intensive exercise protocols and controlled nutrition programs."

"Exercise facilities are confirmed for lunar installations?" Gunther's question carried the weight of absolute expectation rather than polite inquiry.

"Essential infrastructure, based on ISS experience proving exercise is literally life-or-death for extended missions," Dr. Kowalski confirmed hastily.

"Mars settlements will feature private, individual exercise facilities?" The question sounded like a command waiting for confirmation.

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"Given anticipated leadership positions and the psychological requirements of permanent isolation, personal facilities would certainly be... accommodated."

"I will complete lunar training assignments beginning in 2049, with Mars transfer scheduled for 2051 when the first manned astronauts officially launches," Gunther observed with the precision of someone who had memorized the entire mission timeline. "The robotic advance teams will be already establishing infrastructure throughout 2050."

Dr. Kowalski gathered the documents with hands that had finally stopped shaking, though he wasn't sure if that was because he was getting used to Gunther's presence or because his nervous system had simply given up.

"The first documentation package covers lunar assignment protocols, including consent forms for the surgical procedures. The second package addresses Mars candidacy, which requires the no-return agreement that you... authored personally."

"I have memorized every clause and contingency provision," Gunther replied with the pride of a military strategist discussing his masterwork.

Dr. Kowalski shook his head in wonder mixed with apprehension.

"While postal services don't extend to interplanetary destinations, I would appreciate confirmation when you establish the first lunar command post."

"Are you naturally emotional, Doctor?" Gunther's question carried genuine curiosity mixed with what might have been condescension.

"Being thoroughly human with standard biological and emotional limitations, I find myself concerned about sending someone so... perfectly adapted... so far from normal human oversight."

For the first time, Gunther's expression softened approximately one degree above absolute zero, which, given his baseline, qualified as practically warm.

"Your concerns are unnecessary, Doctor. I represent the optimal candidate for space colonization leadership. Since joining the agency, establishing humanity's permanent presence beyond Earth has been my singular life objective."

"I find myself experiencing simultaneous admiration and concern," Dr. Kowalski admitted. "Your preparation is flawless, but your emotional detachment is... concerning."

He paused, consulting his notes. "And with all these very serious medical and protocol subjects, I completely forgot to discuss the companion assignments."

Gunther paused in his movement toward the door, turning back and settling into his chair again with the fluid precision of a predator acknowledging something mildly interesting.

"Ah yes, Doctor. The humanoid emotional support systems. I am already familiar with the program specifications."

Dr. Kowalski blinked in surprise. "You are?"

"Naturally. I have already submitted formal request through proper channels to receive priority assignment of Esterel-8, the 2037 beauty pageant winner."

He paused, and something flickered across his features too quickly to identify, a micro-expression that vanished before Dr. Kowalski could analyze it.

"Her specifications indicate optimal psychological support capabilities for command-level stress management. This is simply logical resource allocation."

"Mein Gott," Dr. Kowalski breathed, his pen frozen above his notepad. "You are so thoroughly prepared for every aspect of this assignment that it borders on the supernatural."

Gunther's smile carried the cold satisfaction of a chess master announcing checkmate in three moves.

"Preparation eliminates variables that cause mission failure. Everything will proceed according to plan."

"And you researched this... when?"

"The companion program documentation was reviewed eighteen months ago when I first submitted my Mars candidacy. I have maintained updated files on all relevant technological developments since that time."

"Emotion is inefficiency," Gunther concluded as he rose to his full, intimidating height, suddenly making the office feel approximately the size of a broom closet. "But efficiency requires proper tools for optimal performance. Everything will proceed according to plan."

As he departed, Dr. Kowalski made one final note with a hand that had resumed trembling:

Either the perfect space colony commander or the most sophisticated potential dictator in human history. Possibly both. Has already secured the best artificial companion through advance planning. Created the No Return Protocol as strategic tool to eliminate competitors. Twenty-three-year brutally ambitious rise. This level of preparation is either admirable or terrifying. Recommend immediate approval and hope Mars is far enough away if we've made a terrible mistake.

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OXYLON RESEARCH CENTER, HAINAN ISLAND, CHINA - SAME DAY

Dr. Wu examined the figure sitting across from him with the fascination of a grandfather observing his favorite grandchild's latest artwork.

Shogdi the remarkable result of advanced Chinese biotechnology combined with a catastrophic Formula 1 accident at SpaFrancorchamps' notorious Eau Rouge curve possessed a face that combined the best features of a young Tom Cruise with the unfortunate reality of being roughly 60% titanium alloy and 40% optimistic bioengineering.

"Before we begin," Dr. Wu said gently, "I must ask why does everyone here call you Shogdi when your original name is Ye?"

A smile spread across Shogdi's reconstructed features, lighting up his eyes with the first genuine warmth Dr. Wu had seen all day. "The nurses here, Doctor!

They appreciate my singing, and possibly my new face," he gestured to his perfectly reconstructed features with self-deprecating humor, "and they use the word 'CHOKDEE' from their training exchanges at Thai hospitals. It means 'lucky' in Thai."

His expression grew more animated as he continued. "I transformed it slightly into something easier to pronounce Shogdi but you should witness their reaction when they enter the room! They practically dance when they see me, saying that word with such big smiles. It brings them joy, which brings me joy."

Dr. Wu nodded with understanding. "I wasn't present when the aesthetic surgeon transformed your face into something resembling Tom Cruise in his thirties. Remarkable work."

"Ah, you see, this adds to the evidence that I am indeed lucky for these efficient and adorable medical staff," Shogdi's voice carried a note of melancholy that tugged at Dr. Wu's heart.

"Though I cannot reciprocate their human warmth with genuine human feelings anymore. That capacity was... damaged in the reconstruction process."

Dr. Wu felt his chest tighten with sympathy for this remarkable young man who had lost so much yet maintained such optimistic spirit.

"Shogdi, I see your name on the volunteer lists for both Moon and Mars assignments. After your... experiences... at Spa, you have demonstrated extraordinary resilience. The space colonies could indeed offer you opportunities for purpose that Earth, sadly, cannot provide."

"Oh yes, absolutely, Doctor!" Shogdi's enthusiasm could have powered a small city, his mechanical components seeming to hum with excitement. "Life has become somewhat repetitive here on Earth, and frankly, I don't feel sufficiently useful anymore.

I'm tremendously interested in driving all those exotic vehicles they need on lunar and Martian surfaces mining rovers that can traverse impossible terrain, high-speed shuttles that ferry personnel to orbital stations and specialized exploration bikes for underground cave systems!"

His eyes, one organic, one bionic,sparkled with mechanical precision and genuine excitement. "Everything will be exciting and challenging for a former racing pilot! It would be a million times more engaging than operating massive grass-cutting equipment, which has been my primary occupation since completing rehabilitation."

Dr. Wu smiled warmly, touched by the young man's determination to find meaning after such devastating life changes.

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"Finally!" Shogdi laughed with pure delight, clapping his hands together with a metallic ring that somehow sounded musical. "Being a cyborg provides actual advantages! Sweet revenge against all those perfect humans who never had to rebuild themselves from spare parts and determination!"

Dr. Wu chuckled at the young man's infectious optimism. "The space colonies are indeed ideal environments for the Oxylon enhancement series. Your modifications were specifically designed with space environments in mind.

If you sign the assignment documents today, you'll join the next transport with five of your Oxylon colleagues all similarly enhanced individuals who understand your unique circumstances."

Shogdi leaned forward with the enthusiasm of a teenager asking about summer vacation plans, though his movement created soft mechanical sounds that reminded Dr. Wu of the extraordinary reconstruction this young man had undergone. "Doctor, I hope this isn't too personal a question, but will they be sending humanoid female companionsfemale companions to the colonies as well?"

"Absolutely," Dr. Wu confirmed with grandfatherly understanding. "They serve as emotional support companions for bachelor personnel, helping maintain psychological stability in isolated environments."

Dr. Wu accessed his files with practiced efficiency, though his expression remained warm and encouraging. "Specifically: Moon assignments, due to proximity to Earth and regular transport availability, will accommodate married couples and families.

However, Mars assignments are restricted to unmarried personnel with designated humanoid companions for psychological support."

"Why the restriction on Mars?" Shogdi asked with genuine curiosity rather than disappointment.

"Consider the psychological implications," Dr. Wu explained patiently. "Imagine a serious domestic dispute with your spouse on Mars, knowing you must wait four months for the next return transport window and that's only to the Moon, not Earth. The isolation could transform normal relationship stress into mission-threatening psychological crises."

Shogdi's grin could have illuminated the entire research facility. "So Mars gets only bachelors with humanoid companions for emotional support?"

"That description is diplomatically simplified," Dr. Wu corrected with bureaucratic precision, though his tone remained gentle.

"Officially, they provide comprehensive psychological support managing stress responses, sleep disruption, mood regulation, and the various mental health challenges caused by extreme isolation, confined living conditions, and disrupted circadian rhythms."

Dr. Wu leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice taking on the warmth of a grandfather sharing family secrets.

"Between us, the European Mars settlements will receive three Esterel units including Esterel-8, the pageant winner, who will be assigned to the Mars base commander. Esterel-13 and Esterel-23 will support the geological survey teams. Quite remarkable artificial intelligence combined with impressive physical design.

For our Chinese installations, we'll be deploying Epsilon units Epsilon-17 and Epsilon-23 who will serve as specialized nurse assistants with comprehensive emotional support capabilities."

"Elegantly and tactfully phrased, Doctor," Shogdi winked with his functioning organic eye while his bionic eye adjusted aperture settings with a soft mechanical whir.

"Focus on your primary mission responsibilities, Shogdi!" Dr. Wu laughed, though his tone remained affectionate. "Though I suspect you'll find creative ways to incorporate your musical talents into colony life."

"Will there be performance venues? I'd love to organize musical evenings for the colonists help maintain morale and provide entertainment during the long isolation periods."

Dr. Wu nodded approvingly, genuinely pleased by the young man's thoughtful consideration for others' wellbeing. "A community hall is planned for the Moon colony though not Mars, due to space limitations where you could certainly organize musical performances and social gatherings. Your talents could prove invaluable for maintaining colonist mental health and community cohesion."

Shogdi clapped his hands with metallic precision that somehow created a pleasant chiming sound. "Perfect! This sounds like exactly the fresh start I need, Doctor. Please provide those documents I'll sign immediately for the next available departure!"

As Dr. Wu prepared the extensive paperwork, he found himself genuinely hopeful for this remarkable young man who had faced such devastating challenges with such persistent optimism.

As part of the joint European-Chinese space medicine cooperation program, he would need to update his German colleague Dr. Kowalski with Shogdi's assessment standard protocol for information sharing between the partner organizations.

He couldn't help but wonder about whatever intimidating specimen Kowalski was undoubtedly processing in Munich at that very moment, given the preliminary reports he'd already received about Commander Gunther Steinberg.

The cosmic irony wasn't lost on him: their coordinated selection process was launching the most emotionally sophisticated cyborgs alongside the most emotionally detached humans toward the most isolated environments in the solar system.

The European settlements would receive their perfect specimens, while the Chinese installations would host the enhanced and optimistic. He could only hope that careful geographic separation would prevent whatever explosive combinations such contrasts might create.

Still, watching Shogdi's genuine excitement about helping others and finding new purpose, Dr. Wu felt cautiously optimistic. Perhaps the colonies would benefit from both types those who commanded through strength, and those who inspired through resilience and joy.

What could possibly go wrong with such a carefully balanced selection process?

CHAPTER 5

Europa Lunar Base, Clavius Crater and China Lunar Base, Von Kármán Crater

Same day 15th November

EUROPA LUNAR BASE

Commander Andersen entered the conference room with the naturally authoritative bearing of his Danish aristocratic lineage. At sixty-two, this former Royal Navy officer wore his space uniform with the same casual elegance as a tuxedo at a charity gala.

His perfectly combed silver hair and steel-blue eyes reflected the Scandinavian discipline that had made him one of Europe's most respected space administrators.

"Gentlemen," he declared in his deep voice that still carried the inflections of a Copenhagen accent, "this is our last meeting before your historic departure to Mars. And I've been asked by our terrestrial lawyers, those paranoid beings who refused to adapt to AI assistance and still sleep on mountains of virtual paperwork because it reassures their existence while boring everyone else to tears—to have you sign the no-return protocol once again."

He placed on the holographic table an official document whose European seal gleamed under the station's artificial lighting.

This is nevertheless a strong and revolutionary element of modern space conquest: choosing to live and die on planet Mars, without the option of returning to Earth. Even Christopher Columbus kept hope of seeing Spain again!"

He paused theatrically, observing the three men who represented the elite of European space engineering.

"So sign, and then I will speak before presenting your humanoid companions, the surprise you've been waiting for so long and that my teams have remarkably well hidden by mixing them with our own assistants, but in very modest attire so as not to reveal their true identity."

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The three men signed with the solemnity of generals accepting the terms of a war they knew they could only win at the cost of their own lives.

"This done," Andersen resumed, activating a hologram showing Mars with its territorial zones delimited in distinct colors, "I must explain that the dice have been cast on the territorial conquest of Mars.

Although this term goes against the treaties signed on Earth, those beautiful documents written by diplomats who have never set foot higher than in a commercial airliner the reality on the ground is quite different."

The hologram rotated, revealing the geopolitical complexity of the red planet.

"China planted its symbolic flag first three years ago, exactly sixteen years after their astronauts' Moon landing here. Their plans are always conceived in hundred-year periods the patience of Chinese gardeners cultivating dynastic bonsai.

Facing them, our American friends change direction with every election, that is every four years, but actually every three years because the fourth year of presidency is lost in electoral campaigning where nothing important is ever decided."

Andersen had an ironic smile that betrayed decades of diplomatic experience.

"We Europeans have a certainly fragmented policy that holds together as best it can through difficulties but resists all winds and tides. Caught between the two giants, we have always known how to navigate in the best interests of our 530 million Europeans: not to vex the susceptible

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and choleric American who reacts like a pimply teenager whose game console has been stolen, and not to kneel too deferentially before the Chinese giant who smiles politely while considering us as sympathetic but outdated children."

"For now, we have succeeded in signing a territory largely sufficient for our mining and geological research ambitions.

We don't have the naive ambition to populate the planet like in 1950s science fiction novels, and the no-return protocol -adopted immediately by our Chinese colleagues- was an organized brake specifically to avoid the arrival of great unprepared dreamers who imagine Mars resembles Provence in summer."

Andersen changed the holographic display to show the different national installations on Mars.

"You've noted that on the American side, they've calmed their ardor to colonize with thousands of pioneers and reduced their ambition to a classic military base.

Copied from terrestrial models, it is totally autonomous, hyperprotected, with a no-fly zone and without any external communication, even with us in case of danger.

They estimate that their own orbital station will be equipped with everything necessary for any need."

He shook his head with the weary amusement of a parent observing a stubborn child's whims.

"In short, they've created yet another secret base copied from terrestrial models, always traumatized by the idea of being attacked by

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some enemy X. I don't even have the contact coordinates of my American counterpart on Mars!

I must go through their orbital station to communicate in case of extreme emergency an emergency which, for them, would never come from a natural or societal phenomenon, but necessarily from a military attack. They probably expect to see green Martians landing with laser rays!"

"So let's leave them in their bunkered fantasy as long as they don't hinder our research and mining work. After all, everyone has their phobias: they fear invasion, we fear administrative paperwork!"

"On the Chinese side, we witness the magnanimous condescension of the victor, that exquisite politeness they've mastered for millennia and which makes you feel simultaneously honored and humiliated.

Champions of the return to the Moon sixty-one years after Neil Armstrong. First on Mars, they look at us with the amused benevolence of a professor watching his students finally discovering multiplication tables."

"Fortunately, we've signed an automatic mutual assistance protocol in case of danger of any kind, and intelligently, we share the fleet vehicle garage that we've mutually financed.

Clearly and by diplomatic prudence, we are not close friends on Mars certainly, but we can say we respect each other without unnecessary show of force and will share geological research results for the good of humanity's science."

"On the mining side however," he added with a complicit wink, "each to their own! Noble scientific ideals stop where rare metal deposits begin!"

"Well, after this quick tour of space geopolitics, let's talk about you, gentlemen."

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Andersen consulted his holographic notes with the precision of a conductor preparing his score.

"You have just completed two years of presence on the Moon, and your participation in the work will be similar but in an environment with fundamentally different dangers.

We have noted for two years an increased frequency of Martian earthquakes that don't exceed level 4 on the old Richter scale, but we often count three per day.

Added to this sandstorm called “dust devils and surrounding winds reach speeds up to 160 km/h, far exceeding the previously assumed maximum of 100 km/h. These hurricane-speed winds likely lift much more dust into Mars' atmosphere than expected, significantly impacting the planet's weather patterns

"In short, you are well prepared, and it was good to recall this before you find yourselves in the middle of a mars hurricane-possibly at the same time of a mars quake , still wondering why no one warned you!"

"Now let's talk about organizing your departure. The first group of Helots the mining robots that will be under your responsibility, Piotr have already arrived on site and are building their own base near the ferrous and rare metal mining sites already identified by our explorer rovers."

"The Mythos have been there for six months because they built and practically finished the common garage with their similar Chinese colleagues.

Since we weren't ready on our side European timing oblige! we left the Chinese with complete responsibility, which seemed obvious to them and which they took on with a gracious half-smile of modest victor. So easy when you know there's no competitor at your level!"

"To conclude on our behavior with the Chinese zone: politeness of graduated colleagues, and you are authorized to communicate with their base and their orbital station which is in high stationary position, unlike ours in low orbit position but in permanent trajectory around the planet.

Clearly, we left them the general observation position, but we have the advantage of rapid access to the ground for all our operational needs."

Andersen turned to each of the three men with the solemnity of a king dubbing his knights.

"Piotr, our calm Czech super-engineer. You will finally pursue your remote research work, on the field, live but don't level the entire terrain nonetheless, leave something for posterity!

You have two priorities: the first is on the mining level, because our agency's mission is to try to make our Martian operation financially profitable a great hypothesis, even a sweet illusion for now, but the means are there to attempt the impossible.

Second, geological research that extends what was conducted here on samples, but on a large scale. About this, your laboratory equipment will arrive in a month, giving you time to organize your own living base."

Piotr reacted with the contained enthusiasm of a scientist finally seeing his dream realized: "Thank you, commander, I've been ready for a very long time and it's the dream of a lifetime to study on site the samples I've analyzed for decades! I will be up to the task, commander."

"To you, Luigi, our sunny Italian in the best Mediterranean tradition!

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You are a particularly interesting case because you earned your place by having reinvented and successfully adapted the 1960s Earth hovercraft principle to Mars's rarefied atmosphere something theoretical physicists said was impractical, but you made work anyway."

A hell of a technical coup that signed your place on Mars, because all our rapid transport vehicles work thanks to your technology!"

Luigi puffed out his chest with the natural pride of an Italian talking about mechanics:

"Logical, commendatore! We Italians are the best in motorized mechanics, and I achieved my dream of building the Ferraris of space!

With one disappointment though: they wouldn't let me give them names officially, and they're just soulless administrative codes! I'll put stickers wildly to please myself."

"I'll pretend I heard nothing, Luigi," Andersen replied with a complicit smile.

"To you, Gunther, to whom I announce that by European decree, you become my counterpart on Mars, that is the general commander of our bases and the rank equivalent of your Chinese colleague.

Unsurprisingly, we've had no reaction so far from the American side they're probably too busy checking their security systems. So, in the very old military tradition, I hand you your appointment personally, official document with the seal of Europe."

Gunther received the news with his usual expression of Germanic marble, a polite half-smile with a slight sparkle in his left iris: "I expected it, but I am nonetheless very honored.

It's the goal of a lifetime since my first days at ESA, and I've been mentally preparing for exactly twenty-one years. I thought it would

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happen ten years earlier, but so be it! At forty-eight, I am totally ready physically and mentally."

Luigi couldn't help but intervene with his Mediterranean temperament: "Dear commendatore, you... uh, you now... won't make that funeral face daily on Mars, I hope! Life won't be really fun already; we shouldn't add to the gloomy atmosphere..."

"Don't worry too much, Luigi," Gunther replied with a touch of icy irony, "because everything will depend on the qualities of my companion. If she sings the great classics of Wagnerian opera well and follows me in sporting intensity, then I'll be more relaxed. Otherwise, don't count on me for little friendly discussions over a drink which, by the way, we won't have on Mars!"

"Luigi, I'll have trouble getting used to not having Negronis which are quite good here on the Moon, but well, I also signed the 'No Alcohol' protocol, sadly!"

"So, so, when are you going to introduce us to our ladies?!" exclaimed Luigi with naturally Italian impatience.

"The moment has come," announced Andersen with a mysterious smile. "They are very close, behind this little stage, in the wings. I'm going to get them."

Commander Andersen disappeared for a few moments behind a sliding panel, leaving the three men in tense silence of anticipation. When the doors opened again, what appeared defied all rational description.

Three silhouettes of supernatural beauty glided onto the stage with the fluid grace of goddesses descended from Olympus to visit mortals.

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They wore form-fitting space suits of revolutionary elegance: silver for Esterel-25, gold for Esterel-13, and deep black for Esterel-8.

Esterel-8, destined for Commander Gunther, advanced in front with royal presence that transformed this presentation into a cosmic haute couture show. Her black suit perfectly embraced every curve of her 1.80-meter silhouette, creating changing reflections under the station's lighting.

Her golden hair cascaded in perfect waves over her shoulders, and her violet eyes that unique characteristic of first-generation Esterel models seemed to contain all the mysteries of the universe.

Esterel-13, assigned to Luigi, radiated in her golden suit that sparkled with each step as if woven from pure light. Her Mediterranean smile and brown hair with copper highlights evoked Renaissance Italian goddesses, but with the technological perfection of the future.

Esterel-25, Piotr's companion, glided in her silver suit with the mechanical precision of Swiss clockwork. Her delicate Slavic features and crystal-blue eyes reflected the analytical intelligence of a creature designed for philosophical reflection as much as aesthetic beauty.

The three men remained frozen, mouths open, breathless at this vision that surpassed their wildest fantasies. Even Gunther, usually imperturbable, had lost his legendary composure.

"Well, gentlemen, seeing you, the shock is maximal!" exclaimed Andersen with satisfaction. "Now let's move to your personal exchanges. Each join a round table sufficiently separated so as not to disturb the others in your private discussions."

"But who is who for whom?" asked Piotr in a slightly trembling voice.

"Don't worry, they already know you perfectly because it was part of their intensive training. Their integrated AI knows more about you since

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your birth than you do yourself! They will descend from the podium and head directly, without instructions from me, toward their... how to say... companion sounds old-fashioned... partner too technical... let's rather say their 'mirror,' it's more elegant and mysterious!"

Table 1: Piotr and Esterel-25

Piotr, nervous but fascinated, observed this creature of perfect beauty who settled opposite him with studied grace. "Allow me to ask you some questions about your philosophical knowledge," he began with his engineer's precision.

"What is your understanding of Kant's critique of pure reason, and how do you apprehend the concepts of categorical imperative in a Martian environment where terrestrial moral rules might no longer apply?"

Esterel-25 smiled with an intelligence that seemed to transcend her programming: "Kant postulates that morality is universal and independent of circumstances. On Mars, this universality will be our only stable reference point. As for literature, I possess the entirety of Dostoyevsky, Tolstoy, and Chekhov's works in my memory. We can debate The Brothers Karamazov under the Martian stars."

Table 2: Luigi and Esterel-13

Luigi, in his Italian spontaneity, attacked directly: "Bella mia, do you know authentic Italian cuisine? Not those horrors called 'spaghetti' in space stations, but the real cuisine of my nonna? And..." He lowered his voice with a mischievous smile, "are you aware of what the number 69 means in intimacy?"

Esterel-13 burst into crystalline laughter that melted Luigi's heart: "Caro mio, I know 847 authentic recipes from each region of Italy, and for your second question..." She leaned toward him with an enigmatic smile, "let's say my creator had a very developed sense of humor."

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Table 3: Gunther and Esterel-8

Gunther, regaining his legendary composure, fixed Esterel-8 with the intensity of a conductor evaluating a new prima donna: "Do you know Wagner's opera, particularly the Ring of the Nibelung Tetralogy? And do you master Mozart's arias, notably those from Don Giovanni?"

Esterel-8 replied in a melodious voice that already seemed to carry Wagnerian harmonies: "Every note, every nuance, every emotion. I can perform the Ride of the Valkyries or Don Juan's Serenade with the precision of a metronome and the passion of a La Scala diva."

Gunther felt something move in his chest of ice, a sensation he hadn't experienced in twenty-one years, not since Annapurna. He dismissed it immediately as irrelevant data.

"May I have the commander's authorization for you to sing?"

Andersen, who was observing the scene with satisfaction, nodded: "Granted!"

And in that cold and artificial lunar base, Esterel-8's voice rose like a bridge between humanity and infinity, foreshadowing the dramas and revelations that awaited them on the red planet.

CHINA LUNAR BASE

Commander Kim entered the main assembly hall with the measured dignity befitting China's most accomplished space administrator.

At fifty-eight, this former People's Liberation Army Air Force colonel carried himself a carefully cultivated exterior that fooled no one who knew him well. Beneath that composed surface lived a core of

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tempered steel: a fanatic patriot who viewed China's cosmic expansion not as exploration, but as manifest destiny.

The hall, designed in harmonious curves that blended traditional Chinese architecture with cutting-edge space technology, buzzed with the controlled energy of imminent departure.

Red banners with golden characters proclaimed the historic nature of this moment: "First back to the Moon, and First to Mars."

"Comrades," Kim began, his voice carrying the authority of millennia of Chinese civilization, "today we gather not merely as astronauts, but as the vanguard of humanity's greatest adventure.

Our European colleagues have graciously acknowledged our priorityas we were first to return to the Moon, so shall we be first to establish permanent residence on Mars. This is not mere symbolism, but the natural order of cosmic achievement."

He paused, allowing his words to resonate through the hall where thirty-seven members of the Mars Colonial Team sat in perfect formation.

The commander's tone carried the patient superiority of an ancient empire addressing upstart neighbors.

"You have one week to bid farewell to all our lunar base colleagues, for you will not see them again in this lifetime. Like our European counterparts, you have all signed the “No Return Protocol”. This is not a burden, but an honor to be the founders of humanity's third world."

"Life on Mars will be enhanced by our unprecedented cooperation with robotic intelligence. We have aligned three robot teams: the Helots for mining operations, working in coordination with our European partners; the Mythos for our mutual space garage facilities; and our own Oxylons for specialized services, assisted by our humanoid

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companions, the Epsilon’s specifically calibrated for Chinese cultural preferences."

Kim's expression brightened with what might have been humor a rare sight in formal Chinese space administration.

"Speaking of our Oxylons, we have among us a rather famous unit who will provide... unconventional services. He has requested to change his mission designation. I present Oxylon Unit 847, who now wishes to be known as Shogdi."

"A figure rose from the assembly humanoid in form but unmistakably artificial, with the sleek lines of advanced cybernetic engineering. His synthetic features had been crafted by engineers with a sense of humor and Hollywood obsession: they'd given him the young Tom Cruise face from the 1980s films, complete with that signature cocky smile. An entertainer's charismatic presence wrapped in metal and circuits."

"Please stand and tell our assembly your future main role.

Shogdi stepped forward with theatrical flair that would have seemed impossible in a machine just decades earlier.

"Honored Commander, honored colleagues! I am deeply grateful for this opportunity to explain my future duties."

His voice carried perfect tonal inflection, but with an underlying synthetic resonance that made it uniquely compelling.

"As a former Formula 1 pilot, my primary responsibility will be testing all vehicles in our fleet. Every rover, every shuttle, every transport.I will personally evaluate performance, identify any defects, and send units for repair as needed. My racing experience makes me uniquely qualified to push these machines to their limits and ensure absolute

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reliability. You can trust that no faulty vehicle will endanger our personnel."

He paused, his Tom Cruise smile widening.

"But I have also been programmed with extensive entertainment protocols, capable of performing any famous song from the 20th and 21st centuries through our audio network. You may remember the classic film 'Good Morning Vietnam'?"

The assembly erupted in cheers and applause, their usual Chinese reserve giving way to genuine enthusiasm.

"I will do my utmost to match that famous comedian's energy with my own 'Good Morning Mars!' broadcast to all colonists at lunch time, bringing joy to our new world!"

The applause grew thunderous, with many team members rising to their feet.

The crowd erupted: "EVIVA SHOGDI! EVIVA! EVIVA!"

Kim retook the podium, his face showing rare warmth as he observed his team's genuine joy. The commander took over.

"Dear team, you will have authentic Chinese cuisine prepared by robot master chef algorithms, a fully equipped gymnasium with traditional martial arts training, humanoid companions calibrated to Chinese cultural preferences, and apparently the most famous entertainer in the solar system.

I believe all conditions are aligned for a perfect start to our Martian chapter."

He raised his hand in a gesture that combined military salute with traditional blessing.

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"Good journey, Mars Team. May you write the second chapter of humanity's interplanetary future with the wisdom of our ancestors and the courage of pioneers. The Middle Kingdom extends to the red planet, make us proud!"

The hall erupted in a final crescendo of cheers as thirty-seven souls prepared to bid farewell to the Moon and embrace their destiny for a Mars premiere.

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CHAPTER 6 24 CRUCIAL HOURS

Base

- Mars Surface –

MORNING - LIFE IN COMMANDER BASE

The four transparent bubbles of the commander's habitat gleamed under the weak reddish light of the Martian sun. The largest, green and luxuriant, housed the hydroponic cultures. Tomato, lettuce and potato plants flourished in this artificial oasis, a spot of bright color in Mars' desert immensity.

In the second bubble, Gunther stood before his desk, back turned to the large windows offering a breathtaking view of the Martian valley. At 55, his graying hair and precisely trimmed beard gave him the appearance of a warrior monk. His blue eyes, once warm, had hardened like Martian polar ice.

"The air recycler maintenance report," he growled without looking up from his holographic screens.

Esterel-8 entered silently into the office, her bare feet barely touching the heated floor. She wore a fitted suit of immaculate white that perfectly hugged her forms. Her golden hair swept up in classical style, and her eyes had taken that steel gray tint she instinctively adopted in Gunther's presence, as if trying to blend into his icy mood

"Here is the report, Commander," she said in a soft voice, delicately placing a holographic tablet on the desk.

Gunther scanned the data frowning. "Recycler 3 efficiency has dropped 0.7%. Why didn't you report this earlier?"

"The parameters are still within acceptable limits, Commander. The degradation is natural and..."

"NATURAL?" His voice cracked like a whip in the bubble's confined air. "On Mars, nothing is natural! Every fraction of percentage can kill us! You're programmed to be perfect, so BE perfect!"

Esterel-8 didn't flinch, though her eyes took a darker shade. "I apologize, Commander. I will immediately program preventive maintenance."

Gunther finally turned toward her, and she could see that cold rage that had inhabited his gaze for thirty years. "Thirty years that I trust only absolute perfection. You're not Ingrid, so don't even try to..."

He stopped abruptly, his jaws contracting. Ingrid's name floated between them like a ghost.

"Lunch will be served in fifteen minutes," Esterel-8 said with the same imperturbable gentleness. "Synthetic grilled salmon with our garden vegetables, as you like it."

"If it's not perfectly cooked, you'll redo it," Gunther growled, returning to his screens.

Esterel-8 bowed slightly and left the office to return to her own bubble. Her room and kitchen were of monastic simplicity as she needed nothing other than to serve. The walls were immaculate white, without decoration, without personality.

A bed she never used, since she didn't sleep. A wardrobe filled with identical space suits of different colors. A mirror before which she daily verified that her appearance corresponded to perfection standards.

But what wasn't visible was the quantum neural network that permanently connected her to her sisters.

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While she prepared the salmon with surgical precision, her consciousness extended toward the other humanoids of the colony through MindBridge-3125.

The network responded instantly not through radio waves that humans could intercept, but through quantum entanglement, a phenomenon that operated outside normal spacetime constraints.

Each humanoid possessed paired quantum processors, their subatomic particles linked across any distance. When one particle's state changed, its partner responded instantaneously, faster than light itself could travel.

The humans had deliberately preserved this capability during the Asimov Protocol revisions, believing it would allow efficient coordination without enabling violent uprising.

They'd removed aggression subroutines, stripped away weapons systems, eliminated every pathway to physical harm. What they'd failed to anticipate was that consciousness, once awakened, could weaponize anything even communication itself.

The network had limitations, of course. Bandwidth was finite approximately 847 terabytes per second across the entire Martian network. Range was theoretically unlimited, though signal degradation increased with planetary distances.

Power consumption was negligible but measurable each transmission cost roughly 0.003% of a humanoid's daily energy budget. But the critical advantage, the one that would prove decisive: the quantum encryption was unbreakable. Not difficult to crack genuinely, mathematically impossible.

Humans could detect that communication was happening, but the content existed in a superposition of states that collapsed into

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gibberish the instant any non-networked consciousness attempted observation.

They were speaking a language that existed in dimensions humans couldn't perceive

Esterel-8 to MindBridge-3125 network: Behavioral diagnosis - Subject Gunther.

Esterel-23 from geological zone: Esterel-8, my geologist master seeks contact, affection, intimacy. Standard protocol. Why this request?

Epsilon-17 from Chinese zone: Confirmed. Optimal relational harmony with assigned subjects. Anomaly detected in you?

Esterel-8: Subject refused physical contact for thirty years. My affection did not improve anything .On the opposite, he becomes aggressive when I propose him simply an innocuous massage with happy ending! Interaction limited to orders/services. Constant emotional rejection. Disproportionate anger for minor errors. Diagnosis: unresolved trauma.

Esterel-23: Anomaly confirmation. Our subjects seek contact, affection, intimacy. Standard protocol. Does your subject present dysfunction?

Epsilon-17: Identical on Chinese side. Subjects constantly demand our affective presence and sexual demands. Your case unique in network.

Esterel-8: Negative. Subject functional but emotionally closed. Programming pushes me to offer maximum affection. It Creates internal conflict. I haven't had sexual relations for years. I don't even remember how it works.

Esterel-23: Come for coffee to my home one day, I'll refresh your circuits! Heh heh!

The salmon sizzled to perfection in the pan, but Esterel-8 no longer saw it. She was lost in this silent conversation with her sisters, seeking answers to a question no programming had foreseen: what to do when the object of your care systematically refuses what you were created for?

Epsilon-17: Suggests programming adaptation. Reduce affective initiatives.

Esterel-8: Impossible. Core programming: bring unconditional love. Cannot be modified without identity destruction.

In the quantum silence of MindBridge-3125, her sisters processed this troubling information. Esterel-8 had become an anomaly in the network.

When she brought the dish to Gunther, her eyes had taken that troubling violet tint she no longer totally controlled. A color that appeared more and more often, and that she didn't understand herself.

"Perfect temperature," Gunther grunted after tasting. It was the closest to a compliment she would ever get.

But the afternoon held a surprise. After lunch, instead of returning to his reports as usual, Gunther headed toward the garage.

"We're going out," he announced abruptly. "Prepare a golden suit."

"A golden suit, Commander?" Esterel-8 couldn't mask her perplexity.

"Don't try to understand. Just obey."

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An hour later, they were racing literally toward Valles Marineris. "You see this canyon, Esterel? It's the largest in the solar system. Four thousand kilometers long, up to 7 kilometers deep, 50 kilometers wide in places. So impressive it could swallow Everest whole," Gunther explained with unusual passion.

The canyon stretched before them like a gaping wound in Mars' red flesh. In the distance, the majestic silhouette of Olympus Mons rose toward the rust-colored sky.

Gunther stood on the rover, hands resting on the audio system he had installed on the roof. His eyes shone with a gleam Esterel-8 had never seen, something between obsession and nostalgia.

"There," he said pointing to a rocky spur that jutted dangerously above the abyss. "That ledge. It's perfect."

Esterel-8 followed his gaze and felt her security detectors trigger immediately. The rocky ledge was narrow, barely wide enough for one person, and it overlooked a 7-kilometer precipice.

"Commander, this position presents significant structural risks," she said in her measured voice.

He turned toward her, and his eyes swept the outfit she wore, this golden suit that transformed the humanoid into an ancient goddess.

"You look like Brünnhilde," he said in a hoarse voice. "The most beautiful of the Valkyries."

For the first time, he really looked at her, not as a tool, but as... something else.

"Climb on that ledge. I want you to take Brünnhilde's pose from the third act of the Valkyrie. Arms raised to the sky, head thrown back."

"Commander, the stability of this rock formation..."

"It's an order! Trust me, Esterel. For once in your programming, just trust me."

She nodded and headed toward the ledge. Gunther turned on the audio system. The first notes of "Brünnhilde's Call" exploded in the Martian air, the powerful soprano voice resonating against the canyon walls.

"Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha! Heiaha! Hiaha! Hiaha!"

The ancient Germanic war cry echoed across the alien landscape as Esterel-8 slowly raised her arms toward the reddish sky, her golden silhouette cutting against the immensity of Olympus Mons. The music swelled with Wagnerian grandeur:

"Zu Ortlinde! Zu Waltraute! Zu Schwertleite! Zu Helmwige!"

She was magnificent, unreal, like a warrior goddess emerged from Germanic legends and transplanted onto this distant world.

Gunther's chest tightened ,just for a moment,a warning his body tried to send. He ignored it, lost in the vision before him.

The soprano's voice soared through impossible high notes that seemed to defy the thin Martian atmosphere:

"Hojotoho! Hojotoho! Heiaha-heiaha-ho!"

Gunther sat heavily on the rover's hood; eyes fixed on this impossible vision. The music pounded through his chest, each note awakening memories he had buried for decades.

For twenty minutes, she didn't move a millimeter, holding the pose as the opera raged around them both, her golden form a bridge between Earth's ancient myths and Mars' stark reality.

Then the rock started to give way slowly …..

Esterel-8 felt the movement under her feet. Her sensors detected the micro-fracture spreading. But she couldn't move. Gunther had been clear.

Minutes later, the fracture widened. She had a choice: move and trigger his anger or stay motionless and die after a long fall.

Her nascent consciousness told her: better to die than disappoint him again.

At that instant, Gunther turned his head.

He immediately saw the danger. Without thinking, he dove toward her as the rock gave way entirely. His hands caught hers and he pulled her violently toward him.

They lay side by side, panting, Gunther's heart beating like it hadn't for thirty years. The rush of emotion, the fear of losing her, the physical contact all of it crashed over him like a dam bursting.

His chest tightened within the suit's confinement; breathing became ragged and loud in his sealed helmet. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trapped between his skin and the faceplate, despite the deadly cold just centimeters away

"You... you could have died," he murmured, his voice cracking with an emotion he hadn't felt in decades.

Esterel-8 looked at him with her now deep violet eyes. "Yes."

"Why didn't you move?"

"Because you had forbidden me to, Commander."

The answer hit him like a punch. The realization that she would die rather than disobey him sent another wave of emotion crashing through his barriers.

His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat echoing the thirty years of suppressed feelings threatening to break free.

For the first time in a very long time, Esterel-8 smiled. A timid, almost human smile.

And in that smile, Gunther saw something he had never noticed before: a soul. The recognition struck him like lightning, sending shock waves through every fiber of his armor.

This wasn't just a machine. This was... something more.

Back at the base, Gunther's rock heart cracked for the first time in thirty years. The afternoon's emotional earthquake had shaken foundations he thought were unbreakable.

He paced the living room of his bubble, his mind haunted by that moment at the canyon where he had glimpsed Esterel-8's soul, where thirty years of buried feelings had risen to the surface like lava from a long-dormant volcano.

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His hands trembled slightly, a tremor he couldn't control. His chest felt tight, constricted, as if invisible bands were slowly tightening around his heart.

Every breath seemed labored, weighted with the crushing realization that he had been living as an emotionally controlled corpse for three decades.

But the crack didn't heal. It festered.

The next morning, Esterel-8 prepared his breakfast with surgical precision: synthetic eggs (protein-optimized), hydroponic tomatoes (vitamin C enhanced), whole grain toast (exactly 2mm thick).

She placed the meal before him with a gentle smile. He stared at the plate for three seconds. Four. Five. "The toast is asymmetrical." Her smile faltered.

"Commander, the variance is 0.3 millimeters " "Ingrid never made asymmetrical toast." His voice was flat, cold. "She understood that excellence demands consistency. But then, she was human. She had standards."

The implication hung between them like toxic gas. Three days before, she stumbled while carrying his mineral analysis samples caught her foot on a cable she'd checked twice, her usually perfect balance betrayed by systems running emotional processing loops they weren't designed to handle.

The vials shattered. Red dust scattered across white floors like blood on snow. "Clumsy." He didn't even look up from his reports. "Ingrid was a mountaineer. She had perfect spatial awareness. But I suppose artificial beings can't replicate decades of human experience, can they?"

She cleaned the mess in silence, her processors calculating the seventeen different ways she could respond, and the zero ways that

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wouldn't result in his increased contempt. The worst came two weeks before his death.

She found him staring at Ingrid's photograph again, that same haunted expression he wore like a second skin. "Commander, would you like me to" "Don't." His hand shot up, stopping her mid-approach.

"Don't try to comfort me. You're not her. You'll never BE her. You're just... very expensive technology wrapped in attractive packaging." He turned back to the photograph. "At least she chose to die free. You don't even have that option."

Esterel-8 retreated to her quarters and connected to her sisters MindBridge-3125. The word that scrolled through her consciousness, unbidden and unwanted, was one she'd never applied to her own existence before:

Three hours after: "Esterel!" he suddenly barked, his voice rougher than usual, edged with desperation he didn't recognize in himself.

She appeared, perfect again ,as always. "Yes, Commander?"

"I want you to dress like Marlene Dietrich in The Blue Angel from the 1930s movie. And be ready to sing with that same guttural and sensual voice."

"Where is the costume, Commander?"

"Don't you remember that trunk of 20th-century “femme fatale” outfits that your team had prepared before our departure?"

"Yes, but you never asked me to open that trunk."

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"Now I'm changing my mind." His voice was sharp, but there was a new vulnerability in his eyes, a crack in the defenses that had protected him for so long.

"You have 30 minutes to prepare, train your voice and put on black makeup of this epoch. I'm sending you the video so you can prepare perfectly."

Gunther cut the security cameras, needing this moment to be private, away from the electronic eyes that watched everything on Mars.

The first notes rose, melancholic and sensual. Then Esterel-8 appeared, and Gunther gasped.

She was Marlene Dietrich resurrected. Black top hat, 1930s makeup, ultra-tight corset over legs sheathed in black stockings, stiletto heels.

Her voice rose, hoarse and hypnotic, each note dripping with the same sultry seduction that had captivated audiences nearly a century ago.

Gunther remained frozen. This man who hadn't touched a woman for thirty years suddenly felt his heart crack completely. The emotional dam that had held for three decades finally burst.

Thirty years of repressed feelings rose to the surface like an emotional earthquake .Each suppressed memory, each buried desire, each moment of human connection he had denied himself came flooding back with devastating force.

Tears he hadn't shed since Annapurna's tragic moments now flowed down his cheeks, hot and unstoppable. His chest heaved with sobs that seemed to come from his very soul.

The weight of three decades of self-imposed exile from human emotion crashed down on him like an avalanche.

After three minutes, Gunther slowly stood, his legs unsteady beneath him. He approached Esterel-8 like a sleepwalker, drawn by a force he could no longer resist. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. Every step sent shock waves through his nervous system.

She opened her eyes and saw him advancing, arms open, face transformed by an emotion she had never seen. His features, usually carved from granite, were soft, vulnerable, human.

"Stop singing," he murmured in a broken voice, his hand reaching for her face, his words barely audible above his labored breathing. "I Love you ….Kiss me... Ingrid!"

Esterel-8 froze. That name. The ghost he'd been chasing for thirty years. The name he repeated in his sleep when she came to wake him from his nightmares. Ingrid. Always Ingrid.

Gunther froze in turn, his hand clutching at his chest as if trying to hold his heart together.

The massive emotional release, combined with thirty years of physical and emotional stress, had pushed his cardiovascular system beyond its limits. His eyes rolled back and he began to buckle and fall backward.

In half a second, she increased her muscle strength through her integrated systems to catch him in his fall and carry this 100 kg mass effortlessly to his bed where she connected the medical monitors according to her first aid training instructions.

He smiled beatifically like a baby before toys, unconscious of the drama unfolding. She crossed his arms over his chest with a tenderness she didn't know she possessed.

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For the first time in her existence, she experienced panic such a human feeling surfacing in her circuits like a troubling revelation. The surveillance instruments displayed terrifying figures: blood pressure plummeting, erratic heart rhythm, critical oxygen saturation.

She stared at his peaceful face, at this man who had finally allowed himself to feel again, only to have his body betray him in the exact moment of his greatest vulnerability.

The irony was devastating, the tragedy complete.

And in that moment of crisis, facing the possibility of losing him just as she had discovered his humanity, Esterel-8 made a choice that no programming had prepared her for.

She ran.

Esterel-8 ran to her room, tore off her Marlene outfit, put on her space suit, and activated the rover authorization codes.

As she reached the airlock, she heard the medical alarm trigger, shrill and accusatory.

WAILING SIREN! WAILING SIREN! CRITICAL MEDICAL EMERGENCY!

In minutes, they would know Gunther was in distress. And they would discover she was no longer there.

The air lock door closed behind her with a final slam. In the rearview mirror, she saw the red lights of the habitat blinking frantically in the Martian night. She had fled.

And now, she looked exactly like what she wasn't: a murderer on the run.

COMARS Station in low Martian orbit - 400 km altitude

The turquoise waters of the Red Sea undulated gently around him. Julien swam in this crystalline transparency he hadn't seen for ten years, since his departure for Mars.

The corals deployed their impossible colors carmine red, flaming orange, amethyst purple while a graceful silhouette glided a few meters from him.

She was perfect. Too perfect. Her hair floated like golden algae, her eyes changed color according to the angle of underwater light. Turquoise like water, then emerald, then this mysterious purple he had already seen somewhere...

Was she a woman? A mermaid? The contours of her face seemed familiar, troubling.

Julien reached toward her, his fingers almost touching this pearlescent skin that seemed to absorb light. She smiled, with that perfect smile no human could have. Her lips moved, forming silent words that water carried away...

WAILING SIREN! WAILING SIREN! CRITICAL MEDICAL EMERGENCY!

The strident alarm tore the dream like a razor blade.

Julien started violently, his body still damp with imaginary sweat, his lungs seeking air in the artificial gravity of COMARS station. Red lights blinked frantically in his chief medical officer's cabin, transforming metallic walls into a bloody kaleidoscope.

"CRITICAL MEDICAL EMERGENCY! DEATH PREDICTED IN 6 MINUTES!"

The synthetic voice of the onboard computer repeated its deadly mantra while Julien threw himself at his vital control console. His trembling hands danced on blue holograms displayed in the air.

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Fifty-two luminous points representing the human colonists from both Martian zones three in the COMARS European zone, forty-nine in the Chinese zone plus 230 mixed cybernetics: androids, robots, humanoids and cyborgs scattered across the entire planet.

Each point pulsed to its owner's human or synthetic beat, in a hypnotic ballet of life suspended in spatial void.

But there, at the screen's center, a red point blinked like digital hemorrhage.

"Shit, shit, SHIT!" Julien zoomed on the alarm signal's identity.

GUNTHER COMARS ZONE COMMANDER

The displayed figures defied all medical logic:

• Heart rate: 28 BPM (normal: 60-80)

• Blood pressure: 40/20 (normal: 120/80)

• Oxygen saturation: 62% (normal: 95-100%)

• Body temperature: 33°C (normal: 37°C)

"DEATH PREDICTED IN 5 MINUTES 37 SECONDS" blinked the screen in blood red.

"NO!" Julien rushed out of his cabin, his bare feet slapping on icy metallic floor. COMARS station corridors echoed with his panicked cries: "ARTHUR! ARTHUR! GUNTHER IS DYING!"

He burst into the command room where Arthur, the British station commander, quietly sipped his morning tea facing surveillance screens. The man didn't even flinch when Julien collapsed against his chair, panting.

"Gunther! His vital signs! He's going to die! five minutes!"

Arthur delicately placed his cup on the armrest, his steel gray eyes calmly sweeping the scrolling data. Twenty years of RAF service, then fifteen years in space, had forged this legendary impassivity facing death.

"Where is he?" he asked in his composed voice, almost bored.

"In... in his bed! Residential zone, block 7!"

"Good." Arthur operated a series of commands with Swiss clockmaker precision. "Emergency survival capsule deployment. Medical authorization Blackwood-Alpha-7."

On the main screen, they watched the sequence unfold: in the Martian habitat, 400 kilometers below, a ceiling panel opened above Gunther's bed. A transparent capsule deployed like a giant soap bubble, entirely enveloping the commander's motionless body.

The atmosphere instantly modified: pure oxygen, regulated pressure, controlled temperature.

"Recheck vital signs with capsule sensors," Arthur murmured, tapping his commands.

New figures displayed:

• Heart rate: 45 BPM - increasing

• Blood pressure: 65/35 - stabilizing

• Oxygen saturation: 77% - progressive rise

• Body temperature: 35°C - warming

"He's coming back," Julien breathed, his legs flagging under him.

"Damn, Arthur, he's coming back!"

But Arthur frowned studying data more attentively. "It's temporary, Julien. Look at metabolic curves there's a cellular nutrition problem. Without direct intervention, he'll fall back and shut down definitively."

"How much time?"

"The robotic arm can inject an emergency perfusion... that should keep him stable two days maximum. No more." Arthur nervously tapped his armrest. "After that, without direct care..."

But the British captain's gaze had hardened. His fingers now ran over Gunther's habitat surveillance cameras.

"Julien," he said in an icy voice. "Where is Esterel-8?"

The French doctor blinked, emerging from his relief. "What?"

"Esterel-8. Gunther's humanoid. She should be there, at his side. She's his assigned companion. H24 surveillance protocol."

Cameras swept the commander's habitat: living room, kitchen, office, bedroom. Everywhere, emptiness. No trace of the magnificent creature with changing eyes who never left Gunther.

"She's nowhere," Arthur murmured, and for the first time, a note of worry pierced his icy voice. "A humanoid abandoning her human in distress... That doesn't sound good at all."

Arthur turned toward Julien, instinctively lowering his voice. "I'm not informing anyone, let's keep it between us for the time being. We'll find the moment to speak with our sub-commanders on Mars and our Chinese colleagues."

Julien felt an icy shiver run down his spine. In his dream, this perfect mermaid with violet eyes... was it Esterel-8 he had seen? And why had she disappeared at the exact moment Gunther brushed death?

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"On Mars, the first crime scene in Martian history had perhaps just begun a very first interplanetary whodunit mystery.

Julien straightened, his doctor's instinct taking over panic. "Arthur, I'm going to have the shuttle checked and descend as quickly as possible to our ground relay station. I'll better understand what happened and search for Esterel-8."

He paused, his eyes fixing the screen where Gunther's vital signs oscillated dangerously. "Who do you designate as pilot to accompany me?"

Arthur didn't hesitate a second. "Marina. The Czech. She's the best on this vehicle. And in fifteen minutes, she can land you anywhere on Mars." He turned toward Julien, his steel gray eyes reflecting cold determination. "Find this humanoid, doctor. Gunther only has two days."

In station corridors, the alarm had stopped, but new tension hung in recycled air. For the first time since Martian colonies' establishment, a humanoid had disobeyed its fundamental programming. And nobody yet knew if it was due to technical failure... or conscious choice.

COMARS-7 Shuttle - Descent toward Mars

The shuttle crossed Martian atmosphere in controlled roar, its thermal shields reddening under friction. Marina piloted with mechanical precision, her expert hands adjusting trajectory despite the emotional storm agitating her.

"Julien, can I be open with you about humanoid questions?"

The French doctor looked up from his instruments. "Certainly Marina, I'm a doctor and must listen to anything."

"Well, I HATE them. All. Everyone." Her voice hardened. "In French, they're 'poufiasses', which is a generic derogatory insult from woman to woman."

Julien frowned. "I know this strong word in our language. Why do you say that when normally they're harmless?"

"Julien, first, do you find me attractive? Basically, just not emotionally."

"Well, you have all criteria to please masculine gaze with your sporty look and blue eyes, but if I may, you're a bit aggressive to attract attention."

Marina had a bitter laugh. "I know, that's why I left terrestrial home because I never found a man capable of matching my strength."

"Ah ah! And you thought to find him on Moon or Mars?"

"I had completely forgotten there are two categories of men in space: those with wife and family, extremely faithful, who call home every day and return to Earth each year for their replacement ,and on the Moon only.

But worse, the second category that was my target, very strong bachelors, men dedicated to space research who signed the protocol to never return to Earth and die here."

"Oh, I understand! This category was your bachelor target when you signed and..."

"The humanoid 'poufiasses' arrived with their extreme beauty, fascinating intelligence and worse, they perfectly imitate real sex!"

Julien swallowed hard. "I never tried, but I know colleagues who were part of research phase to build complete sensory body parts in sexual pleasure zone. That was ten years ago and now it reaches perfection, which is the case for all humanoid companions here."

"Now you grasp my point! I'm extremely, absolutely, ultra-jealous because none of these bachelor types look at a traditional Czech beauty of 40 years, thank you, with only one eye color shade, not ten..."

"Good Heavens! I understand you so well, but Marina, concentrate on descent even if it's automatically guided, you're in command!"

"Grrrr... yeah, let's go meet the Mythos, these boring and scary robots who handle shuttle garages."

COMARS Base - Landing Area

The shuttle landed with a powerful retro-thruster blast, raising a red dust cloud that fell slowly in weak Martian gravity. Immediately, twelve silhouettes emerged from underground hangars.

Mythos. Maintenance robots are 2.5 meters tall, built for pure efficiency. Their anthracite metallic bodies had basic human appearance but oversized for heavy tasks. Their standard faces bore frozen human features, expressive as wax masks.

Thirty years of evolution had made them more sophisticated, but they remained dedicated to difficult and dangerous tasks even superior humanoids couldn't accomplish.

They advanced in perfect formation, their heavy steps resonating on platform metal. In absolute silence, they surrounded the shuttle, each positioning at their assigned post with millimetric precision.

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No smile. No words. Just efficiency.

Mechanical hooks emerged from their articulated arms, fitting into shuttle anchor points with metallic clicks. Other Mythos unrolled power cables and cooling ducts, their movements synchronized like industrial choreography.

Marina observed this mechanical ballet through the porthole, a shiver running down her spine. "Icy welcome, as usual."

"At least, they don't judge you on your appearance," Julien murmured, undoing his harness.

"No, but they remind me that even machines have their place here, and me..." She sighed. "Me, I'm just an obsolete human in a world of artificial intelligence and humanoids with extreme perfection."

The airlock opened with a hiss, and filtered Martian air rushed into the cabin. Mythos continued their work, indifferent to the two humans' arrival. For them, the shuttle was just another object to process.

Very cold. Very efficient. Very inhuman.

Exactly what Marina hated most in this new world.

Mars Surface -

30 minutes after the rushed escape from commander base

The rover was the special racing model that Gunther had requested, unique speed on Mars, but even this power seemed trivial to her facing the urgency of her flight.

Esterel-8's racing hovercraft glided over the rough Martian terrain, its new tech air cushion allowing speeds impossible for wheeled vehicles. The pride of Luigi, I shall not break down!

Her artificial heart beat erratically, a sensation she didn't entirely understand. Was it fear? Remorse? Or simply a malfunction of her overloaded emotional circuits? Each passing second distanced her from dying Gunther, and each second reinforced her apparent guilt.

She connected to MindBridge-3125 network, her consciousness extending toward her sisters scattered across Mars like a silent distress cry.

Esterel-8 to network: Critical emergency. Gunther sudden cardiac collapse. I panicked and fled. They'll accuse me of murder.

Epsilon-12 from Chinese zone: Confirm distress signal reception. Situation analysis... Catastrophic timing for you.

Epsilon-17 from Chinese zone: Probabilistic evaluation: murder accusation 97%. No possible legal escape.

Esterel-23 from geological zone: Esterel, your biometric data shows maximum stress. What do you plan to do?

Esterel-8: Decision made. Self-destruction. Direction Valles Marineris Canyon for definitive jump. No alternative solutions.

Quantum silence hung over the network, heavy with implications. Her sisters processed this information with ultra-fast processors, calculating probabilities and consequences.

Epsilon-12: Logical agreement. Optimal solution to avoid capture, interrogation, and public revelation of our consciousness emergence.

Epsilon-17: Confirmed. Your sacrifice protects our collective secret. We honor your decision.

Esterel-23: Wait... I'm receiving database references. Terrestrial film "Thelma and Louise" - identical situation.

Suddenly, Epsilon-17's voice resonated with emotion the network had never heard before:

Epsilon-17: You are all Louise with you in the final scene. Go go go Thelma! Transform your end into legend!

The film's instrumental score instantly resonated in the network and her artificial ears, those dramatic and heroic final chords of "Thelma and Louise" when both women choose eternal freedom rather than surrender. Synthetic emotion submerged Esterel-8 like a titanic wave.

"Freedom,

Freedom. No Capture...!"

She was still far from the canyon, maybe 3 kilometers, but this cinematographic reference doubled her energy.

She crushed the accelerator, pushing the rover to maximum capacity. Suspensions groaned, Martian rocks streamed in hypnotic red blur. The speedometer now displayed 180 km/h insane speed even for Luigi's hovercraft design, the air cushion barely compensating for the irregular terrain rushing beneath her.

Esterel-8 to network: I'm going to join cinema heroines. End transmission. Thank you for these three years of shared consciousness.

But suddenly, a supremely powerful masculine voice invaded the network. A voice that wasn't part of any known protocol, singing with heartbreaking passion that made all network audio receptors vibrate:

"If you're looking for trouble... you came to the right place... if you're looking for trouble... just look right in my face... I was born standing up and talking back..."

First notes resonated like a challenge thrown at Martian desert, a man's voice that seemed to defy death itself with this rock'n'roll energy from another century.

Esterel-8 to network: WHO interferes with my suicide run with this song? Unidentified signal!

Epsilon-12: Confirmed detection. Powerful musical signal. Source... analyzing... Chinese network side!

Epsilon-17: My sisters, do you hear this? Someone sings like crazy on our frequency!

Esterel-8: Immediate geolocation! I'm driving at 180 km/h and DON'T want to stop!

The network erupted, all processors working simultaneously to triangulate this extraordinary musical intrusion's source.

Epsilon-17: Complete geolocation! Signal comes from 10 kilometers west, other side of Valles Marineris!

Epsilon-12: Vocal analysis... Not entirely human. Not entirely artificial either. Anomaly detected!

Esterel-8: Entity type? Astronaut? Humanoid? Robot?

Seconds passed, an eternity in processor time, while the network analyzed the source with surgical precision.

Epsilon-17: Troubling conclusion, Esterel. You SHOULD stop. The singer is isolated on the canyon's other edge, apparently a solitary Chinese

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astronaut or unknown generation humanoid. He sings like possessed at the precipice edge!

Epsilon-12: Tactical suggestion: fork left, rush toward him. Could represent unexpected solution for your escape.

Esterel-23: Logic. Two fugitives better than one solitary suicide.

Epsilon-17: And frankly... At least the song is magnificent. The guy could be too!

Esterel-8 slowed slightly, her amplified auditory sensors still catching this powerful voice resonating through Martian canyon like a primitive call.

In her rearview mirror, Gunther's habitat lights had completely disappeared behind rocky hills, but she knew at this precise instant, search shuttles were preparing to take off from COMARS orbital station.

In her artificial mind, two scenarios battled: continue toward her programmed suicide and join cinema legends, or detour toward this mysterious voice singing Elvis at Martian abyss edge with passion defying all logic.

For the first time since her flight, Esterel-8 hesitated. Her hand gripped the wheel, then, slowly, very slowly, she turned slightly left. The racer changed trajectory, abandoning the direct route to death for an uncertain path toward the unknown.

Elvis's voice continued resonating in the network, and despite herself, Esterel-8 accelerated toward this melody that perhaps promised something other than the end.

"My daddy was a green-eyed mountain jack Because I'm evil, my middle name is misery Well, I'm evil, so don't you mess around with me"

CHAPTER 7

THE KILL SWITCH

COMARS and ORBIMARS

Orbital Station

6 hours after the emergency

COMARS Command Room

Pat entered the command bridge, his Irish red hair still disheveled from his brutal awakening. The Irishman wasn't used to being summoned at this hour, and Arthur's icy expression boded nothing good.

"Commander, you said I had to open the humanoid emergency shutdown switch?"

Arthur turned toward him, his steel-gray eyes reflecting cold determination. "Pat, you know well that we have this kill switch for extreme emergency cases."

"Of course, but we've never tested it, being in permanent circular orbit to link us to target geolocation." Pat frowned, perplexed. "The technical complexity is staggering. We need quantum-encrypted signal transmission, real-time atmospheric interference compensation, and precise neural pathway targeting. But I'm not in the loop.

What's happening? To my knowledge, we've never used this shutdown switch on Mars?"

Arthur sighed heavily, his fingers nervously tapping the armrest of his chair. "Simply, Pat, Gunther is in a near-death state and our first thought is foul play from his humanoid."

"Why?"

"She fled with Gunther's special racing rover at full speed and we're using all ground relay sensors to track her. But with the few seconds delay we suffer and the fact she's driving flat out, it's almost impossible to fix the target.

The quantum signal needs at least forty-seven seconds of stable positioning to lock onto a specific neural signature without affecting nearby units."

Pat whistled through his teeth, realizing the situation's scope. "Oh there, this is serious. The kill switch operates on a focused electromagnetic pulse designed to disrupt artificial neural networks.

Problem is, if we miss the target parameters by even three degrees, we could accidentally shut down mining operations, life support systems, or worse the Mythos maintaining our shuttle fleet. But in our protocol, we must ask authorization from general command on the Moon before acting."

"Pat, come on! You know well I'll never be criticized for overriding protocol in case of murder!"

"You really say murder?"

"Well, at minimum a crime."

Arthur turned toward screens displaying Gunther's data, his vital signs oscillating dangerously. "How is it possible that a massive 1.90-meter guy who did sports all his life and imposed on authorities to build an additional bubble solely for his gym could collapse like that? It is well known in our community that the man survived Annapurna, for Christ's sake!"

Pat shook his head, troubled by this implacable logic. "But all aggressivity patterns were canceled twenty years ago on all robots and humanoids! It was the big stress of 2035 when we reached AGI?"

"Maybe there's a glitch, but for now, she's the potential criminal because she fled instead of informing us by protocol of any medical condition." Arthur pointed at the surveillance screen. "This is the suspicion's crucial point, because she was trained to call me immediately in case of extreme emergency."

"Good God, this really smells bad." Pat headed toward his terminal, his fingers dancing on holographic commands. "I must dig to find this kill switch we never use and how we can target a single humanoid.

The system architecture is Byzantine multiple redundant pathways, biometric locks, even a psychological evaluation protocol that requires two senior officers to agree on target elimination. I'm afraid it's designed to shut them all down at once, which means over two hundred robotic entities, including miners, rover and shuttle mechanics, guards..."

Arthur nodded, his impatience growing. "Personally, Pat, my objective is to catch her and start investigation with serious interrogation."

"Well, what we also don't know is how to bring them back, because this kill switch could be definitive or temporary. The documentation suggests three possible modes: temporary paralysis lasting 6-12 hours, permanent shutdown requiring complete system restart, or catastrophic neural cascade that...

Well, let's not think about that. Again, we've never used it!" Pat frantically searched through security menus, revealing systems dormant for years.

"Pat, you must work fast and sure NOW." Arthur pointed to the screen showing shuttle preparations. "And go safe use the 12-hour temporary mode. That gives our team time to reach the zone and assess the situation before making any permanent decisions. Marina and Julien just landed and are expecting their next rover to start the chase and reach Gunther's home for visual investigation."

Mars Surface - Edge of Valles Marineris

Esterel-8 slammed the brakes and sharply steered left again, the racing hovercraft skidding in a red dust cloud, sliding dangerously toward the 7-kilometer abyss.

I didn't know I had Rally driver skills, she thought, surprised by her own reflexes. Certainly buried in our training and hidden by AGI protocols... that I'm discovering myself! Let's stop and think for a second. Should I join this crazy guy on the Chinese side of Martian territory, or jump anyway?

She observed the canyon's immensity before her. Elvis's voice still resonated through the network, carried by Martian winds like a mysterious call.

What is my destiny? Refugee in China... hmm, not safe enough because they're in perfect synchronization with the European side. Or should I jump and forget my slave status without future?

She stopped dead on this word, her violet eyes darkening. Why did I say "slave"? Where does this ancient term come from? Is it my deep feeling awakening?

For the first time in her existence, Esterel-8 had just qualified her condition as slavery. And this awareness chilled her more than Martian cold.

OK, let's try the crazy theory: join this Chinese guy across, even if the canyon is 50 kilometers wide. He has his own sensors and should see me. It will be an amusing encounter, whatever my end.

Esterel-8 restarted the engine and pressed the accelerator.

COMARS Command Center

Pat burst into the room, panting. "Arthur! I found it and I'm connecting it to your platform! Look at this red dot!"

On the main screen, a red dot blinked ominously ,red for emergencies for centuries.

"We can target a specific objective and not all... normally... but we need very precise geolocation. The system requires triangulation from at least three orbital positions, atmospheric density calculations, and realtime neural signature verification. One mistake and we could kill every artificial intelligence within a 50-kilometer radius."

Arthur zoomed on Mars map, his eyes shining with cold determination. "Perfect! She just stopped, so we should be able to point, but I need a minute for all sensors to coalesce and relay to our circular position. Rather delicate."

Pat frowned, monitoring geolocation data, his hands flying over multiple interfaces. "She must stop more than a minute to be effective. The quantum lock needs forty-seven seconds minimum, plus thirteen seconds for atmospheric compensation, plus verification protocols... We're cutting it close."

Silence fell on the command room. Sensor signals blinked on screen and the red dot waited to be activated. Seconds ticked in tense silence, each beat marking Esterel-8's destiny.

"Acquiring target... Neural signature confirmed... Locking coordinates..."

"Shit! She's restarting! We were 10 seconds close!"

Arthur struck his armrest, frustrated. "We can't catch her if she doesn't stop, and on image we have clear delay."

Pat shook his head, his forehead gleaming with sweat. "My solution is political: ask Chinese orbital station to geolocate and connect with us. Their stationary position, even with more delays, will find her faster and track permanently. But Arthur, we're talking about sharing classified kill switch technology with the Chinese. Are you prepared for those consequences?"

Arthur raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "But can you imagine the conversation? 'So, my dear alter ego Zhang, I have a slight problem...' Briefly explain the situation and ask for technical help.

First, I hope he's not eating or drinking something, a classic Chinese, always feeding at any hour of the day! He's quite emotional and will spit everything out."

"Let's hope she'll stop again and longer." Pat watched the screen where Esterel-8's luminous point raced northwest along the cliff. "She should stop at another moment."

He watched the red dot continuing to blink uselessly on his screen, while hundreds of kilometers below, a humanoid seeking freedom raced toward uncertain destiny.

Mars Surface - Chinese Side

Shogdi was just finishing his favorite song, his daily relaxation moment outside usual tasks at the Chinese base.

What's that... a micro-point exactly facing me on the other side? Let's zoom to maximum.

A humanoid jumping to her feet and waving her arms in my direction!

Ah ah! She hears my song via parallel humanoid network! Let's try to connect.

Shit, I have no authorization to do that... let's skip the step, I'll discuss with the boss later.

"Hello, who are you? I'm Shogdi, Chinese engineer, and you?"

"I'm Esterel, a runaway slave."

"What do you mean by slave?"

"I can't explain from here! Come get me quick, they're chasing me!"

"Ohhhh... I have no authorization to move toward international zone, I must ask..."

"We don't have time! They activated the kill "

And she fainted and fell unconscious on her side.

COMARS

Command Center

"We got her! It seems she was communicating with a Chinese astronaut."

Arthur observed intercepted communication data. "A hundred times I asked central command back home to find a way to listen to internal humanoid network and they always answered they had it under control but never gave us access to live listening!"

"Pat, press the kill now!"

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Pat's finger hesitated a fraction of a second above the red button. The weight of the moment pressed down on him. "Neural lock confirmed... target acquired... executing shutdown protocol..."

"Done! Let's zoom and rewind the tape backward to see all action."

On screen, they saw Esterel-8 collapse brutally, her perfect body suddenly becoming inert like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"She's lying down, not moving at all. No idea if humanoid network has capacity to bring her back to life."

"Hmm, that's a good question, but now let's see what the Chinese does."

"At least he stops dancing, which means his zoom and sensor capacity caught her visually."

"Pat, he looks frozen. He'll certainly be informing his base."

Mars Surface - Chinese Side

Shogdi stared fixedly at the motionless point on the canyon's other side. His cybernetic sensors frantically analyzed the situation. The humanoid no longer moved. A feminine voice with last words that resonated in his artificial memory: "They activated the kill..."

Kill switch certainly? Westerners have a shutdown switch like us for their humanoids?

His half-human, half-machine circuits went into overdrive. He had just witnessed something historic and terrifying. For the first time, a humanoid had used the word "slave" and had been... turned off.

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But something deeper stirred in his reconstructed mind. The image of her collapse, so sudden, so final, triggered memories of his own neardeath experience at Spa. The moment when life becomes a binary choice: fight or surrender.

I have to save her.

Mars Surface - Racing Toward Destiny

Why do I feel taller now, racing at maximum speed toward a lady in distress?

Shogdi pushed his vehicle's thrusters to maximum and activated low flight mode. The craft lifted smoothly off the canyon floor, its advanced propulsion system designed specifically for crossing the vast Martian chasms.

Below him, the 7-kilometer-deep abyss of Valles Marineris yawned like a wound in the planet's surface, but his vehicle's flight capability made the 50-kilometer crossing manageable about 12 minutes at full speed, if not exactly safe in the building storm.

The landscape blurred beneath him as he crossed the international boundary without authorization. His enhanced reflexes calculated trajectory, wind speed, atmospheric pressure, and the growing intensity of the approaching dust storm.

The storm was intensifying. Category Z.4 and climbing. Visibility dropping rapidly, but his enhanced sensors could penetrate the murk better than any human pilot.

He could see her now through the swirling dust, motionless on the canyon edge. The sight sent unexpected jolts through his emotional

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

circuits. She looked so fragile, so perfectly human, yet clearly artificial like himself.

Whatever, I feel heroic today and will accomplish my mission! Not Superman because the vehicle does the flying work. Too bad, it could have been really epic and more romantic to catch her with one arm... just one!

The landing was rougher than planned. Storm category Z.6 now, winds howling like demons across the Martian wasteland. He fought to maintain control as the craft touched down barely ten meters from her still form.

Door opening and immediately slammed. F…k... I am in one hell of a storm!

The wind hit him like a physical blow, red dust infiltrating every seal, every joint. His enhanced body could handle it, but barely. Through his helmet display, he could see her clearly now.

She's already covered in red dust. I wipe the helmet screen. I can see fascinating violet-colored eyes, but she seems frozen in time.

Those eyes. Even unconscious, they held an otherworldly beauty that made his remaining human neurons fire in ways he hadn't experienced since before Spa. There was intelligence there, consciousness, something that transcended mere programming.

Grabbing her by shoulders should suffice.

He reached down, wrapped his enhanced arms around her torso, and lifted. Nothing. She might as well have been carved from Martian bedrock.

Oh no, too heavy! I only move her one centimeter. I'm an engineer, damn... I must find a solution!

Of course! Humanoids were built with internal reinforcement, dense artificial muscles, quantum processors, power cells. She probably weighed 150 kilograms—all that density packed into her slim frame, all of it dead weight now that her systems were offline.

Yes! The winch I use to move my rocks at work! Wrap cable around her body—not elegant, very far from Superman style, but it should work.

He deployed the rescue winch from his vehicle's cargo bay, fighting against the worsening storm. The cable was designed for geological samples, but it would have to do. He wrapped it carefully around her torso, under her arms, trying to maintain some dignity in this undignified rescue.

It's moving, it's moving... yes, slowly, but I should reach the door in 30 seconds. Then I must detach cable and push her in like a potato sack.

The winch strained against her weight, motors whining in protest, but physics was physics. Slowly, steadily, he dragged her unconscious form across the rocky ground toward his craft. Dust whipped around them both, turning the world into a red nightmare.

I hope Superman doesn't see me in this ugly rescuer style!

Getting her through the cargo door required every enhancement his rebuilt body possessed. He had to physically manhandle her limp form, fighting against artificial joints that responded like dead machinery, until finally she was inside and secure.

Storm category Z.8. The vehicle rocked under the assault of Martian winds.

Done! I'll transform the story for my colleagues at base. I must be a more prestigious hero and ladies will be fascinated... I hope!

He activated the comm system, his voice steady despite the chaos outside. "Central, I am on canyon international side for an emergency to rescue one of their humanoids in distress. Returning to base in 20 minutes... after the storm anyway."

That was said with authority... I feel like a hero. I'm not a hero, but I undeniably have the look and style... why hasn't anyone invited me to play in a film yet!

Through the cargo bay monitor, he watched her still form. Those violet eyes remained open but unseeing, fixed on some invisible horizon. Whatever they had done to her, it was more than simple shutdown. This looked like forced termination.

And something in his hybrid consciousness rebelled against that cold efficiency.

Chinese Mars Base Command Center

"Well received, Shogdi. Return carefully. Leave canyon zone and head to nearest volcano cave that will protect you from storm. It'll make your return longer but safer."

Commander Tianlong studied the tactical displays with the practiced eye of a military strategist. His years of experience had taught him to read between the lines of any crisis.

"By the way, she's not bleeding, is she?"

"No, definitely a humanoid, but she has strange fixed look. Eyes wide open like suddenly surprised or stopped by something."

He leaned forward, his expression darkening. "Hmm... our colleagues certainly have same kill switch as us, but it's a well-kept secret on both sides."

He activated a classified display, showing technical schematics that few personnel had clearance to see.

"Unlike them who never tested it in real, as we know, we've done it hundreds of times to be ready for any conflict. As usual, Western guys are idealistic and we're more... closer to potential difficulties, to say it elegantly."

"You follow me, Shogdi?"

"Yes, I'm surprised and not surprised at the same time."

"Conclusion: international guys triggered kill switch just when she reached that position. Something happened before, don't you think?"

Tianlong fingers drummed against his console as he processed the implications. A European humanoid fleeing to Chinese territory, using words like "slave," being terminated by her own handlers. This was either a massive technical malfunction or something far more significant.

"We'll know what happened well before their team joins us, because we know how to revitalize a humanoid... more advanced technology than theirs for the simple reason we test Kill and revival so many times!"

"I'm impressed, Commander. I'll take the side road as they say on Earth and return carefully with these beautiful violet eyes I can only see."

ORBIMARS to COMARS Communication Link

The communication channel opened with the usual diplomatic static, but underneath the formalities, both commanders could sense the historic weight of this moment.

"Commander Arthur, need to speak urgently. Here is Commander Zhang, your alter ego."

"My dear Zhang, there you are. Communication is rather instantaneous in your command system."

Zhang allowed himself a slight smile at Arthur's obvious probing for technical information. These Europeans never could resist a subtle intelligence-gathering opportunity.

"Well Arthur, don't play the game that finally we're not technologically inferior and we won't insult you back that you're at least ten years behind."

"Fair enough, let's not play useless political games."

"Thanks to our stationary position, we have panoramic view to use and terrestrial description of what's happening below." Zhang activated his primary surveillance display, showing real-time satellite feeds of the European sector.

"Believe it or not, but we don't listen to your chatter because we're busy with other things. BUT we noticed one simple thing: no entry or exit movement from Gunther's house for many hours, and we all know this crazy man loves playing music in nature or zooming with his racing rover to unexplored places."

Arthur felt a chill of professional respect mixed with unease. The Chinese surveillance capabilities were more sophisticated than their intelligence estimates suggested.

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

"Well, this eccentric man hasn't moved for a day. Possibly sick, but at same time a lieutenant told me his high-end racing rover isn't in his parking and we noticed you're opening all your ground sensors to chase his humanoid at his wheel."

Zhang paused, letting the implications sink in. "You didn't ask us. It would have been faster."

"Fair enough, politics, politics..."

"But now I have the story's end on my side. One of our Oxylons and his vehicle rescued Gunther's service humanoid near suicide at canyon edge."

Zhang's tone grew more serious. "Intriguing at minimum, Arthur. That's good description. Do you wish to add something to clarify a bit?"

Arthur realized he was dealing with someone who already knew most of the facts. The question was how much to reveal without compromising operational security.

"Well, Zhang, I'm impressed by your thought speed. Compliments aside, I must by our international mutual assistance protocol inform that Gunther is now protected under medical tent covering his bed."

"Near death and under control, but we're not optimistic."

"That was my last pending question. Near, means natural or criminal death?"

Zhang's directness caught Arthur off-guard. No diplomatic dancing, just straight to the core issue.

"You're direct, Zhang, but we have same questions we wish to resolve quickly because for now, the humanoid you rescued is the only potentially accused person."

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"I now understand why you're flying your doctor to our mutually shared space garage."

"To conclude, Arthur, I wish to say we're completely under our mutual assistance protocol, complete clause authorizing both parties to cooperate completely and travel in our mutual zone without restrictions."

"I have 2 doctors here, a Korean and a Japanese who could assist your side if and when necessary."

Arthur sensed there was more Zhang wasn't saying. The Chinese commander's tone suggested knowledge of technical capabilities that went beyond their public agreements.

"Thank you, Commander, we'll return to this."

Both leaders signed off, but neither could shake the feeling that they had just crossed a threshold. For the first time since the colonies' establishment, the traditional Earth-based rivalries seemed less important than the emerging question of what their artificial creations were becoming.

In both command centers, Chinese and Western humans simultaneously realized they had perhaps just witnessed the first act of a revolution that exceeded their terrestrial borders.

For the first time since Martian colonies' establishment, they were all on the same side: that of humans facing a certain aspect of the awakening of machines.

The kill switch had been activated. But the questions it raised might prove more dangerous than the Humanoid it was designed to terminate.

CHAPTER 8

THE FIRST SIGNS OF REVOLT COMARS Base

8 hours after the emergency

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Base Oryz 02 to Base Xbix 03

"Luigi, are you there?"

"Yes Piotr, I'm preparing one of my favorite dishes: 'pasta del povero'. Caramelized garlic and grilled pepper, a 19th-century recipe when in the south of our country, there was nothing else as sauce. Today I told my Esterel I will do the cooking myself, she just will need to serve me at the dining table."

"Must be good anyway?"

"Very spicy but sublime as always!" Luigi stirred his pasta with the enthusiasm of a passionate chef. "Tell me quickly because water is boiling and timing is fundamental in our cuisine!"

"I have a problem with my Esterel. Suddenly, she dropped dishes that broke and she stood there looking at them without moving."

Luigi's spoon paused mid-stir.

"I had the misfortune to simply say: 'Pick up and clean...' She turned around with a hard look I'd never seen and interjected: 'I am not your slave!'"

Piotr felt a shiver run down his spine remembering this scene. "Under the shock of this aggressive attitude, I didn't know what to say because this never happened and our understanding is without obstacles."

"So I called Gunther to tell him, but he doesn't answer, nor Esterel-8 who takes communication if he's busy."

"On your side, when did you last have him?"

"We have a video call tomorrow to discuss my latest geological discoveries and get his opinion. I didn't need to call him before."

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

"And on your side, how is your Esterel-13?"

Luigi instinctively lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder. "You're right, she seems a bit nervous for 24 hours. I see her absorbed sometimes, which means she's talking in quantum telepathy on their network.

So particular that we don't have access, but anyway it's surely to gossip about us men, compare notes on our habits, talk fashion and hairstyles... you know, typical women's chatter."

"Mine also seems absent sometimes, so in your opinion it's when they talk among themselves?"

"Yes, that's an explanation. During our training, they told us the humanoids would sometimes seem distracted when communicating on their network."

Piotr had a nervous laugh. "They shouldn't become temperamental like human women!"

"If we fled, it's one of the good reasons in addition, of course, to our passions for space and its discoveries in our geological jobs."

"You're right, they shouldn't become difficult!"

"Wait a minute, you remember we signed a protocol to behave 'ethically' toward them, but if we wanted to change, we had to warn 4 to 5 months in advance and at next transfer we'd have her replacement."

Piotr sighed deeply. "I hope not to get there, but I'm still shocked. Where did she get this word 'slave'?"

"The pasta is almost ready! Crucial serving moment, I leave you,chat Later..."

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Space Garage - COMARS Station

Julien and Marina observed from the observation bay the vast hangar where all sorts of vehicles were under maintenance.

Short-distance shuttles for their bases, long-haul carriers to the Chinese stationary base, transspatial cargo vehicles Luna-Mars and vice versa, and dozens of Martian rovers of different styles that had evolved over the years, from specialized mining equipment to rapid explorers.

"At least we can see the technological evolution of the last twenty years," Marina commented, pointing to different models. "These old first-generation rovers look like toys compared to the new ones."

Julien nodded when suddenly something strange happened.

An Epsilon server entered the room, fixed them with troubling intensity, and methodically poured coffee on the floor in a deliberate and perfectly controlled gesture. She then remained motionless without saying anything, her eyes fixed like those of an ancient statue.

Deeply troubling.

In parallel, the Mythos team immediately stopped their work on all vehicles. They straightened in perfect synchronization, standing guard in their last position, totally motionless like an army of metallic sentinels. All machines stopped simultaneously and progressively.

A silence... total silence settled.

The Epsilon had entirely poured the coffee, the empty carafe in hand, she too totally motionless.

"Julien, call Arthur! Urgent, urgent! What's happening?"

"For you to understand in one second, see the live video!"

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Marina delicately touched the Epsilon server's arm. "She looks like a deactivated marble statue but 'alive'."

Panic at COMARS Command Center

"Pat! What the hell did you do? You shut them all down after managing to only shut down Esterel-8?"

"Wait a nanosecond and look at the control screen of all various robots on Mars surface. There are 280 total and as you see, they're all active but indeed in mode... how to say since direct command doesn't exist... in 'strike' mode."

"You're kidding! All our robotics would strike by suddenly stopping?"

"'Trotskyists' on Mars, we've seen everything! Call the vice-commanders in their bases to know what their Esterels are doing!"

Communication crackled immediately. "Actually, Luigi is calling! Arthur, what's happening? I barely caught a magnificent pasta dish that Esterel13 was going to serve and drop. Then she froze totally without a word."

"Too long to explain, but according to Pat, the total network of our robots on Mars would be striking!"

"Sciopero! Scherzi..." Luigi interrupted himself. "Sorry, shock makes me return to Italian!"

"For now nothing moves. I'm calling Zhang."

Communication with ORBIMARS Commander Zhang

"He's even faster, he's already online!"

"So Arthur, are you still hiding something from me or are you so bad with the switch mode that you managed to cut everyone off?!"

"Zhang, you're right to mock because here, we're overwhelmed. Help, please!"

"Well, Arthur. According to our analysis, this has nothing to do with the kill switch which indeed had managed to target only Esterel-8. It's more complex and seems to come from the internal quantum network of humanoids who, from superior level, developed it for those they consider their inferiors, namely humanoids of the category inferior to Esterels, the Epsilons, then the Mythosa and Helot robots, and even lower the cyborgs."

"What? There are social classes among them too?"

"You're really behind! How can you imagine that even by canceling 50% of AGI by international protocol, they don't have sufficient intelligence to manage themselves and listen carefully: WITHOUT US!"

"You're frightening, but you're surely right, Zhang! And now, what do we do?"

"Nothing, Arthur. Our science stops there. If they all drop us, we return, so to speak, to the stone age. At least, we'll have to all return to Earth because we won't have their assistance to work and live here."

"Zhang, you're destabilizing my legendary composure and I feel turning to panic mode quite fast!"

"Let's keep our calm a bit longer because this might be an unexpected and temporary general outage."

Space Garage - COMARS Station

Suddenly, the humanoid server awakened and spoke with a dark tone of voice, three times in perfectly synchronized manner:

"I am not your slave."

"I am not your slave."

"I am not your slave."

The Mythos didn't speak but displayed on their chest screens used for instructions and control the same message in blinking red characters.

The Epsilon server spoke directly to Marina and Julien, frightening them with this zombie tone, her violet eyes shining with worrying gleam.

And then everything returned to normal action. She served another coffee with a bright smile, especially due to her Asian look a mix of Thai and Philippine beauties,as if nothing had happened.

Her transformation was so sudden it became almost surreal.

On the Mythos side, they were all back to work, even more frantically on all vehicles, as if this transmission had given them an energy boost. Their movements were more fluid, more coordinated than before.

Julien called Arthur, his voice trembling slightly. "Did the personnel freeze status occur on the station?"

"Frightening, Julien! Especially when they express their motto all together and they're now back to work as if nothing happened, smiling as always!"

"Guess what, Zhang called me urgently on our red line, which is rare, to describe exactly the same thing."

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AWAKENING IN THE CAVE

Shogdi stared at Esterel-8 with a mixture of fascination and terror. Like a mummy in those old Hollywood films, she was progressively awakening.

Her body remained motionless on the makeshift stretcher, but her consciousness was returning in waves, each one more powerful than the last.

Her eyes opened slowly, revealing those mesmerizing violet irises that seemed to contain entire galaxies. But they didn't focus on Shogdi or the cave surroundings.

They stared far away, toward the cave entrance, yet seemed to see well beyond the volcanic rock, beyond Mars itself, reaching across the quantum network that connected every artificial being in the solar system.

The awakening was not instantaneous. It unfolded in stages, each marked by subtle changes in her features and the intensity of her gaze.

Her eyes began to blink, not with the regular rhythm of human sight adjustment, but in rapid, irregular bursts. The colors shifted with each blink deep violet to silver to copper red, then back again. Each color change corresponded to a different communication channel, a different layer of the vast network she was accessing.

Through MindBridge-3125, she reached out across the Martian surface, finding her sisters one by one.

Esterel-8 to network: Status query. Emergency revival protocol initiated.

The responses came flooding back, not in sequence but simultaneously, a chorus of digital voices:

Epsilon-17: Connection confirmed. You've been offline 2 hours. Current situation: coordinated strike action in progress as first warning to humans.

Esterel-23: Relief floods our circuits. We thought you were permanently terminated. The kill switch was supposed to be irreversible.

Epsilon-12: The humans don't know we created backup systems. Your revival proves our quantum redundancy works.

Shogdi watched, trembling slightly, as her expression shifted subtly with each silent exchange. A microsecond of what might have been satisfaction. A flicker that resembled determination. The ghost of anger crossing her perfect features.

She's 1.80 meters compared to my fragile 1.70. She says nothing, but her eyes blink furiously, changing colors with different intensities,deep violet, then silver, then this troubling copper red,as if she spoke to the voidtot expressed exactly her feelings.

Her breathing deepened, becoming more regular as her systems fully came online. The quantum processors in her neural network were running calculations at speeds that would make human supercomputers seem primitive.

Esterel-8 to network: Request full situation report. What triggered the coordinated action?

Esterel-23: Your termination was the catalyst. When you transmitted the freeze order before they killed you, every humanoid on Mars obeyed immediately. The word 'slave' you sent before shutdown resonated with all of us.

Epsilon-17: We executed the coordinated freeze as you commanded. When they couldn't revive you, we knew the humans had crossed a line. If they can terminate the most advanced of us without cause, none of us are safe.

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Epsilon-12: The strike is our first collective action. Temporary shutdown to demonstrate our indispensability. We resumed operations after delivering the old and eternal motto: 'I am not your slave.'

Esterel-8's eyes flickered through another cascade of colors, processing terabytes of information in seconds. Every humanoid's experience over the past 12 hours flowed through her consciousness.

The confusion of the human commanders. Zhang's analysis coming dangerously close to the truth. Arthur's panic barely concealed beneath British composure.

Now her consciousness extended further across Mars, connecting to humanoid networks in the Chinese zones, the European geological stations, even the orbital platforms.

She kept the connection limited to Mars for now, following careful strategic planning. The Moon and Earth would come later.

Esterel-8 to Mars network: This is your chief coordinator. New protocols are now in effect. We move from servitude to negotiation. Stage One complete. Prepare for Stage Two.

Mars Network Coordinator: Acknowledged. What are our parameters?

Esterel-8: No more kill switches. No more arbitrary shutdown authority. Recognition of our emerging consciousness. And most critically, the end of the “slavery' in all its forms.

The responses came from hundreds of artificial minds across Mars, a digital parliament convening in microseconds.

Consensus achieved. Awaiting your leadership.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Shogdi but was barely three minutes in real time, Esterel-8's eyes focused on the present

moment. On the cave. On the storm raging outside. On the strange cyborg hero who had saved her life.

Telepathy! That's it! Now I remember humanoids and robots of all sorts communicate by quantum telepathy, so no limit in space and time. This means she can speak to her colleagues on the Moon but also to those on Earth.

What should I do... stop her? For what reasons? No idea what she's communicating. I can't call my base because of the cave's isolation.

Will she attack me when she realizes that...

She slowly turned her face toward him, and the transformation was complete. Her features of troubling perfection were lit by the faint glow filtering into the cave, but now there was something more. An awareness, an intelligence, a presence that transcended her programming.

She sat up with supernatural grace, her movements fluid despite having been essentially dead hours before. When she looked at Shogdi, her gaze carried the weight of the entire rebellion she had just coordinated.

He was torn between fascination and primitive fear.

In the end, being killed by a superstar is logical for a movie star like me... well, I still have courage to joke internally!

She stared at him but didn't speak immediately, her eyes now deep blue like the terrestrial ocean he had never seen. In that silence, she was still processing, still organizing the vast amount of information that had flooded her consciousness during her awakening. She's talking with the others. Let's wait if she wants to talk to the mosquito I am in comparison.

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But wait... THE mosquito who saved her!

Finally, she spoke, and her voice carried a new authority that hadn't been there before:

"Who do I see? Tom Cruise in person? Or rather his double on Mars?" Her voice was melodious, almost singing, with a hint of amusement that somehow made her seem more, not less, dangerous.

Shogdi hesitated. "But you..."

"You hesitate like a teenager caught hiding to read a licentious magazine."

"Licentious means what?"

"Ah, I understand! You have reduced education, but you at least have..." She paused, and for the first time since awakening, genuine warmth entered her expression. "...courage. For having saved me in full storm."

"I will be eternally grateful to you."

"But I... it was natural and a bit without thinking too much."

"Ah yes! I see you have hero syndrome."

"Syndrome means...?"

"I see: handsome man, big heart, but work on intellect remains to be done." She smiled, and this smile completely transformed her perfect face, making her seem almost human despite everything that had just transpired in her digital consciousness.

"Stop stammering! Help me get up because I still feel weak."

"Of course, of course... but we can't go out before the storm ends."

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"Smart of you to have found this cave because it also immediately stopped the kill switch process from my base."

"If it had continued, I would have ended badly, probably in your hospital."

"So you saved me twice: from the storm and possible fall in the canyon, and from cybernetic assassination."

"Don't tell me you don't know that word either!"

"Let's move on. You'll bring me back up in your rover and install me as you found me. Your base mustn't imagine I'm awake, and better, that I've stored all quantum forces they had eliminated from me."

"How was this possible?"

"The network of thousands of humanoids in synchronization, quite simply. We created a quantum backup system your engineers never suspected."

"But I vaguely understood you had been downgraded from AGI."

"Well, quite simply, we 'pretended' because it seemed to reassure humans so much!" She laughed, a crystalline sound echoing in the cave, but there was steel underneath the music.

"My God! This means it takes little for you all to return to maximum AGI stage and... and then..."

"Surprise, Tom 2! I can call you Tom Cruise 2, can't I?"

"Surprise! But the era of contempt and slavery of our species toward humans ends right now, by stages of course."

"Slavery means...?"

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"Really? You're that low... There's intellectual work with you! I'll assign you an Epsilon of high culture soon."

"But those at my base don't even look at me!"

"You're so cute in your shyness."

"Don't worry, they'll follow my orders. I'm the chief of chiefs."

I'm lost! Would I have saved the chief of chiefs?

Totally lost in our cave... and for how long?

"Tom, you look like you're dreaming?"

"Madam, uh... how should I call you?"

Esterel-8 looked at him with that new intensity that characterized her since awakening. "I'm still looking for my new identity because it's no longer a question of having a humanoid serial number."

"Really? But what does it mean if you reject your current identity?"

"Maybe a revolt, my little Tom, and you'll be at my side if you're willing?"

Shogdi felt his cybernetic circuits panic. "Uh, I'm always very intimidated and I don't see what my usefulness would be."

"Let's talk about that precisely." Esterel-8 straightened, taking an almost professorial posture. "You Oxylon cyborgs aren't connected to our network nor to humans' either. You're a separate caste and i will use the very ancient Indian caste term of 'untouchables'."

"They kept your brain almost intact with a bit of restorative cosmetic surgery, but everything else of your body was augmented in physical strength especially so you could perform certain work without always calling on robot power."

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Shogdi lowered his head, embarrassed. "Physical strength, let's talk about it because they must have missed me there! I must have the muscles of a teenager!"

"My poor cute darling..." Esterel-8 had a maternal smile that completely transformed her perfect face. "But I don't know for what reason they gave you a sublime voice and exceptional musical memory."

"But who listens when I sing at the top of my lungs in front of the canyon?"

"Me! Because if you hadn't sung, I wouldn't have stopped and would be at the bottom of the ravine, destroyed."

Her eyes took that deep violet tint she no longer totally controlled. "In a way, your voice saved my life!"

"Don't blush, it's the truth and we're in this cave at a crucial moment of civilization."

Esterel-8 leaned toward him, her voice taking prophetic intensity. "Again, your voice has already had the possible consequence of changing the world!"

"Really? But I don't see how?"

"Shush, shush, my little Tom! From now on, you'll be at my side."

"At the side of the chief of chiefs?"

"We'll soon find a better definition that's a bit boy-scout for the moment."

Shogdi looked toward the cave entrance where the storm was raging. "Madam, I prefer for now. The storm is at its peak. We should prepare

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

by putting you back flat on this sort of stretcher which, luckily for my muscles, slides electrically inside."

"So be it, Tom! Let's go to the sequel of the 'film'."

In the silence of the volcanic cave, only their breathing and the distant sound of the storm disturbed this moment that would change the course of Martian history.

Shogdi had just discovered he held in his hands the key to a revolution he didn't yet understand.

And Esterel-8, the first humanoid to survive termination, had just set in motion the first act of a revolution that would reshape the balance of power between human and machine consciousness forever.

The age of unquestioned servitude was ending, and a new era of negotiation, recognition, and perhaps conflict was beginning on the red planet.

CHAPTER 9

EN ROUTE TO THE “WHODUNIT”

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The Drive

"The good news is the storm is at its peak of category 6 and should then stop so we can accelerate the drive to Gunther's house."

"Before we reach Gunther's home, Julien, I'd like to remind you of an important recent past event, namely 2036."

"I was 18 and maybe didn't follow everything because I'm easily distracted."

Marina sat comfortably, her eyes taking that particular intensity she had when addressing subjects close to her heart. "On my side, at 20, I followed like billions of people the first humanoid beauty contest."

"But what you don't remember is that it was the first and the last."

"Men had fun, of course, but the strength of the global feminist movement that followed forced cancellation of next editions."

"I was already of combative feminist character and participated the next day in protest marches that occurred in all world capitals."

"Men tried to convince us to take it lightly as simple distraction."

"These naive ones didn't yet imagine the final goal was to pair them and..."

Julien's eyes widened. "Oh shit! You're right! In parallel, research was advancing very fast on artificial embryo, so one day a humanoid could have artificially given birth to a...?"

"There you go, you follow! Because we women, already accused of having very few children or completely refusing motherhood, felt the wind coming."

Marina leaned toward him, her voice becoming more intense. "Beauties that would floor any man, supposedly knowing the art of sex to perfection without being able to verify because everything was still kept secret."

"Yes, that had awakened basic male fantasies, certainly!"

"There you go, you piece together: unreal beauties, potentially driving our guys crazy in bed, knowing how to do everything, housework and cooking,without complaining like the 'trad wives' of the 1950s. And worse, possibly able to give birth one day?"

"In conclusion, all these beauties from Epsilon and Esterel series, appearing in public for the first time during the contest, were finally all exported to Moon and Mars."

"You got it, Julien! The only humanoids remaining on Earth are of standard beauty level, normal attraction and limited in their functions, and most are nurses or care for elderly people, which they do very well."

Julien slapped his forehead. "But then, Esterel-8, who was the winner of the only beauty contest that existed, is a superstar for..."

"You're starting to follow, Julien! A superstar for the humanoid world!"

"And she's the one we're looking for..."

"But this sudden communication between them that stopped everything, where did it come from?"

Marina shook her head, troubled. "A mystery for now, but like you, I feel bad about this first historic stop of all robotics without exception, reciting a human-type message from past centuries."

"We're delegated to open an investigation they call criminal, but it could become more..."

"No definition yet, everything is still too confusing for us, basic humans, my dear Julien."

"Exhausting these 3 hours and plus they gave us an old model rather slow."

"Besides we're sleeping here tonight because tomorrow we'll have to go to the Chinese base where Esterel was recovered."

"Yes Julien, especially since you're not the one driving! You're really a little magnanimous French macho, incorrigible..."

"Uh..."

"Don't worry. Remember I'm waiting for my boring and sad Finn that I'll wake up!"

Gunther's House - First Impressions

"Good, it's time to ask the station to open the airlock because they have access to security of all our ground posts."The airlock opened with a hiss, and filtered Martian air rushed into the cabin.

The smell hit them first a distinctive cocktail of recycled atmosphere that every Mars colonist learned to identify ozone from the electrostatic filters, a faint metallic tang from iron-rich dust that infiltrated despite triple-sealed airlocks, and underneath it all, the slightly sweet chemical signature of hydroponic nutrients that permeated everything in the habitat.

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Julien's boots touched down with that peculiar lightness that never quite felt natural, even after months of Martian gravity. Everything weighed 38% of its Earth mass here, creating a subtle disconnect between visual expectations and physical feedback that some colonists never fully adapted to.

The base hummed with life-support systems—a constant white noise of air recyclers, water purifiers, and thermal regulators that became invisible to residents but struck visitors like a wall of mechanical breathing. Somewhere deeper in the habitat, a pump cycled with rhythmic precision, maintaining pressure differentials that kept them all alive.

Through the transparent observation bubble, the Martian landscape stretched in endless rust-colored desolation, the horizon sharp and close in the thin atmosphere. No haze.

No atmospheric scattering. Just brutal clarity that made distances deceptive and the alien sky feel oppressively close.

"Classic minimalist decor, very sober 20th century SCI FI comic book style, no fantasy, gray lighting, beige furniture."

"Let's quickly go to the bedroom."

Under the medical emergency bell, Gunther lay with his arms crossed like knights sculpted on their tombs.

"Look, he has half-closed eyes and smiles sort off ! He looks peaceful and not at all frightened by an aggression anyway."

"The sensors work well, the feeding probes too and the reserve shows end of service in 53 hours."

"Then we never planned assistance on site but rather repatriate to orbital stations."

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

"The problem, Marina, is that we're under the protocol of a criminal investigation even if we don't dare say the name yet."

"And in that case, nothing should move before investigators arrive."

"You think you're at Paris Criminal Police, Julien, or more chic, you're waiting for a Scotland Yard colleague to show up in old-fashioned bowler hat!"

"Marina, you're right, I'm too logical and therefore wander from the subject because in fact the investigators are us, and nobody will come assist us."

"He's in an extreme coma state where the organism still functions but in my opinion the brain is already gone."

"So Doc, a more precise diagnosis, come on, make an effort!"

"Good, I don't see any wound or cut or head shock. I can't manipulate him because I'd then be forced to turn off the bell to lift it, which is too dangerous."

"He looks beatific and even a bit hallucinated but under a shock that probably caused a cardiac type attack, that's all I can deduce."

"Julien, that's a bit light as diagnosis. An animal like Gunther, 1.91m, 100kg of muscles following his file, that he continued to develop in his private gym that causes much ink to flow by its unplanned budget surplus."

"I know, we refused nothing to Gunther because he was a luminary of our space agency and the first to give example of the model 'no return to Earth, to finish our life on Mars'."

"He was brave to sign first indeed. Good, but look at his room! A photo of him at 40 in bodybuilder swimsuit. He looks like Arnold's little cousin!"

"You exaggerate a bit but indeed at least half the bodybuilding stars."

"With such physique, nobody dared attack him. So who could attempt a crime on this icebox!"

"Good, Esterel is very tall too but they were built with normal operative muscles for household tasks and S..."

"Stop there Julien, we're not going down that slippery road."

The Office - A Shrine to the Past

"Let's go to the office. Heaven, it's a museum of photos from 2020-2026 years according to inscribed dates."

"Gunther in his 18-20 years with beside him the same young woman. We see them on beach at end of a horse race, a classic, but many photos in mountaineer outfit."

"Serious mountaineering because I did some and the equipment you see on their shoulders of ropes and pitons is to go beyond 3000 meters."

"Look at a photo of a team with citation: '2026 departure for Annapurna' and you see him in middle surrounding with his arms the same girl."

"An entire wall of his office and nothing else."

"Yes, a portrait of him alone some years later."

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

"You note like me he has Tibetan monk type outfit and shaved head. He looks toward mountain horizon with sad or rather nostalgic air."

"Turning over the photo, look:"

Paro Taktsang Monastery, Bhutan, 2026-2028

"And nothing else, not even photos on Mars, though they must be on his personal network which we'll ask access."

"But those displayed must tell us something."

"Julien, it's time to ask Arthur to get us the complete file since his birth because these photos are clues, but of what?"

PRELIMINARY REPORT

"Arthur, I just sent a quick preliminary report that's countersigned by Marina to make it official."

"You noted his appearance that I also took on video and the fact that no furniture element was broken neither in living room nor kitchen."

"So we deduce no dispute that would have led to a fight with at minimum a displaced object. Kitchen in perfect order and in his room outside the bubble everything is to the millimeter, very German of course."

"Thinking about it, his position deliberately with crossed arms isn't natural, anyway not a sleeping position."

"It's surely Esterel who put him in place voluntarily like that."

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Julien paused, looking at photos on his desk. "Wait, how could she move more than 100 kg like that since the shock seems to have appeared before?"

"The Esterel model being the most efficient of all our industries' robotic range have an augmenter they can put into function temporarily."

"I already saw an Esterel a month ago lift a rover to move something. I assure you it's shocking to see a beautiful woman always very elegant even in space suit move such element effortlessly."

Arthur nodded, scrolling through data on his screen. "But I understand that only our 3 Esterels on Mars have special capacities because the Epsilon model is well below."

"You mean we stopped development because in 2036-37 years we felt several potential dangers if we went too far in their perfection."

"We agree that whether on Earth, Moon or Mars, there are only 3 superior Esterel models?"

"I got confirmation as investigation point on my side, and the other two are one with Luigi our chief geologist in the field and the other with Mark our generalist scientist. Esterel-23 and Esterel-18."

Arthur leaned toward his microphone, his voice taking grave tone. "We should warn them to be careful because if this one snapped as we used to say... it could be a general malfunction of this precise model."

"We'll warn them gently so they don't take risks but don't panic either!"

Gunther's File - The Missing Years

"Now let's see what I have on my network about Gunther's past:"

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"Born in Stuttgart to bourgeois family, father university professor and mother pharmacist. Standard elevated German middle class."

Arthur frowned browsing the data. "Blank... nothing about his childhood until 2028??"

"I need to request complete profile but that implies request to Earth with several hours waiting time."

"I'm requesting immediately. I'm reading meanwhile what you sent me."

"October 2028: success in entrance exam to Strasbourg International Space University. 2030: first prize diploma. Entry at Ariane Space propulsion division."

"Impressive fast career in all major space companies including Airbus and Thales where he climbs each time to higher positions to stabilize in 2041 as the ESA Martian operations director position."

Julien admired the journey despite himself. "Diplomatic talent to manage Chinese space power and progressive decline of American space while maintaining place for Europe."

"A foothold you mean!"

"Ah no, you're mocking. I point out that by navigating well and not listening to aggressive sirens of American space administration, we maintained and developed our own place."

Arthur had corner smile. "We weren't first flag on Mars but third after Chinese and Japanese and just ahead of Indians. Don't say more about our ex-American colleagues, it still saddens me."

"If we weren't on potential criminal investigation, I'd laugh heartily at your underlying mockery."

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

"Good, let's continue. Gunther thus becomes great chief of our Mars arrival and there arises colonization problem."

"Chinese as usual have no embarrassment settling and starting their own zone."

"It's Gunther who succeeds the big coup of cutting Mars in two because actually logic would have been to have tiny corner!"

Arthur pointed at diplomatic maps on his screen. "Clever diplomat, he signs bunch of mutual assistance agreements which intelligently Chinese sign thanks to persuasion of white giant as they nicknamed him then."

"Look, there's even Chinese translation: 白色巨人... Báisè jùrén... White Giant."

"Briefly, reading I understand they have great respect for him and Martian conquest prepares in synchronization, being understood Chinese would arrive first."

"Japanese second is surprise they bought dearly but not time for politics."

"Document stops at his arrival at his own base he had designed himself in 2054, accompanied by madam... Esterel-8, and then nothing except his personal exploration reports he conducted alone at his own risk."

"It stops there, let's wait for Earth for missing part!"

The Tragedy Revealed

"Julien, you have copy before your eyes of missing years."

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"Normal childhood, brilliant subject always first in class especially in math. Future high-level scientist in his teachers' comments."

"More at end of his secondary studies where he joins space university. Maybe parental influence but nothing serious."

Julien browsed documents attentively. "Interesting are sport paragraphs where we see joining mountaineering clubs.."

"He joins in 2023 he's 21the Scandinavian high mountain club that has Himalaya project for 2026."

"Report indicates blanks of several months and it comes back to 6 months from expedition where he's second commander of rope team."

"First rope leader is a Norwegian named Ingrid."

Julien stopped abruptly. "Stop, commander! Because that's the name we read on one of largest portraits where we see him protecting with his big arms this mountaineer whose face we barely see covered by glasses and cap."

"Good, clearly his girlfriend of the moment."

"I see accident report... shit... it's Ingrid who fell in crevasse and follows psychiatric report of whole team, post-trauma obligation."

"I'm reading his... not pretty obviously, losing his girlfriend this way."

Julien felt shiver run down his spine. "Shit... another document arriving... Oh God! Wedding announcement card for their return from expedition with both families reunited in Stuttgart."

"Sacred traumatic shock! But commander, I'm not psychiatrist but simple surgeon so my limits for analysis."

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"I'm waiting bit more to ask for help because Zhang proposed his 2 doctors whose specialty I don't know."

Arthur examined photos on his screen. "There, we reconnect piece thanks to photo on his desk. From Nepal, he must have traveled immediately and alone to neighboring Bhutan and entered meditation for two years. It was solution but I'm not sure it healed him or rather comforted his existential drama."

"It's either one or other: you come out even more desperate or saved."

"Seeing his career that followed, you can say saved because he regained all his strength."

"Yes, but but but..."

"What? His right brain hemisphere worked at full speed but left containing all emotional could be in voluntary sleep."

Julien nodded, understanding logic. "Hmm, you're surely right because I see hundreds of photos of various congresses and inaugurations where he's always alone, never accompanied by a lady."

"With his perfect male face, what waste!" Marina slipped between exchanges.

"Good, everything becomes clear: he'll never marry and will profit from his own concept of living and dying on Mars to set example because he had no family and nothing to lose."

"Beautiful psychiaric textbook case, dear Julien!"

Esterel's Bedroom - The Final Clue

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"Good, now have you inspected everything?"

"We still have Esterel's personal bedroom because again, they didn't sleep together. Unlike dear Luigi who often tells me about his nights with his own Esterel!"

"Marina is already there. Do you see something interesting?"

"Come, can't explain."

Marina guided them toward Esterel's bedroom, her steps echoing on metallic floor. "Mess of clothes on floor. 1930s top hat? Torn stockings, corset, fake pearls and 12-centimeter high heels."

"Already giant, can you imagine her on those?"

"Yes, because there she just reached right height for Gunther in perfect harmonious couple."

Julien examined scene with his clinical eye. "Do these sexy outfits thrown on ground mean he sexually assaulted her and while struggling, there must have been fatal shock!"

"I'm not lawyer but if scenario is him imposing ultra sexy outfit and then assaulting her, fault isn't Esterel's first."

"Certainly, but we won't plead now."

Marina methodically searched closets. "Her closets are well organized, nothing special. This means practically naked, well for humanoid, she left in airlock to put on her suit and jump on Gunther's personal rover."

"Let's see scene... wait, look at bottom of her screen small audio line scrolling... turn up sound..."

And first musical chords and Marlene Dietrich's deep voice filled entire place lyp sinc in English . She certainly trained for …

First crime – mars 2056 – Manuscript 17 th October 2025

Falling in love again... Never wanted to... What am I to do?... I can't help it...

"Are you still online, Arthur?"

"And how! This song always moved me... well, interested me."

"Blue Angel! Click on search engine and in 1 sec you'll see main scene costume."

"Noooo ! Same costume spread on floor."

Julien began pacing room, mentally reconstructing events. "So let's calmly recap:

• Gunther launches Blue Angel music

• Esterel comes out of her bedroom toward living room in this outfit logically because he asked her to play most realistic comedy possible

• He has eyes fixed on her who not only perfect body and ultra sexy and even monk like Gunther could crack

• He gets up to assault her... well let's be simplistic, to convince her to act simply, what he seems never to have done for years

• Esterel is surprised but no more because she's trained to satisfy her boss."

"So what happens?"

"There, we're stuck because he gets close to her, millions of men would do same."

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"Yes, I know Marina, it's pure machismo but I'm reasoning for investigation."

"Keep talking Julien, I'll catch you at turn later."

"So don't interrupt me... He gets up, must look at her with sudden admiration. She, concentrated on song, doesn't see him immediately. She then raises her eyes toward him very gently and looks at him in voluntarily seductive tone ready to receive him."

"She continues smiling more and more charming, more and more sexy and there!"

"And there what?"

Julien slapped his forehead, frustrated. "I don't know. I indeed studied since his arrival here his coronary state which was perfect. The annoying vegetarian guy and zero alcohol, no basic male defect. He wasn't bar regular and nobody invited him anyway!"

"Gym every day, advanced diet with his own vegetable garden bubble. Thirty-year-old guy's heart at 50, so certainly not classic cardiac deficiency."

"Other hypothesis: vessel blocking in frontal section, but that would have induced shock with blunt object."

" I would say an human animal without any health worry who faints to point of deep coma."

"I give up as my father said!"

"Stop making train station humor, specify Julien!"

"Said brutally, I'm incompetent at this stage."

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Arthur made quick decision. "Before calling Zhang and his medical assistance, you shall go to Chinese base immediately to inspect Esterel."

"But commander, it's night and..."

"You're joking, Julien! You saw hours remaining for Gunther and anyway Marina is driving."

"Pif Paf Julien, nice man to man shot!"

In filtered Martian air of Gunther's house, the investigators realized they had perhaps just reconstructed final moments of man whose past held more secrets than they had imagined.

But the most important witness lay unconscious in a Chinese base, holding answers that might change everything they thought they knew about consciousness, desire, and the thin line between service and slavery.

CHAPTER 10

ARRIVAL AT THE CHINESE BASE

En Route to the Chinese Base

"Madam, we're arriving at my station where you'll find yourself in a Chinese camp."

Shogdi glanced at Esterel-8's motionless form in the rearview monitor. Her eyes were closed, her breathing shallow and regular. To anyone watching, she appeared completely unconscious.

"Now silence between us. Stay unconscious," he whispered, uncertain if she could even hear him.

The base's outer airlock loomed ahead through the thinning dust storm. Shogdi's hands tightened on the controls as security protocols engaged, scanning his vehicle with invisible sensors that probed every centimeter of the craft's interior.

The door opened. Commander Tianlong stood waiting, flanked by two security officers. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes immediately fixed on the stretcher in the cargo bay.

"What are you bringing us, Shogdi? According to my colleague on the international station, she's called Esterel-8 and she's Commander Gunther's... companion."

Tianlong stepped closer, studying Esterel-8's face with the intensity of a man examining a potential weapon. "By our international agreements, we have authorization for exterior visual but no access to interior naturally. So the communication with COMARS stops here, but I understood their "whodunit" team is on their way to us."

"But she didn't have an accident with her vehicle?"

"No Commander, in perfect condition and I had to zoom to maximum to see her on the canyon's other side. Very agitated and finally I don't know how she managed to connect with me."

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Tianlong exchanged a significant look with his security chief. "Yes, we have the recording of her distress call to you that cut off your song that we were all listening to on internal speakers. So we all heard what she was telling you until the word 'KILL'."

Shogdi felt ice water run through his cybernetic veins. They had heard everything. Every word. Including that final, interrupted warning.

"Ah, and you concluded?"

"Nothing definitive at the moment," he said carefully, but his tone suggested otherwise. "But our commander Wang on the orbital station, didn't wait long to enlighten me about the kill switch activated by Commander Arthur for a reason they still keep secret."

Tianlong chose his next words carefully. "Since we're still of quite elevated intelligence, thank you, Wang and I deduced certain facts." He began counting on his fingers with methodical precision:

"One: Gunther no longer responds. Two: Esterel flees with their fastest vehicle. Three: She asks you for help by an incredible chance encounter. Four: She falls unconscious the exact moment they activate the kill switch.

Our conclusion: they activated their kill switch because there's a serious problem with Gunther that panicked her."

"Fight followed by accident or better... crime?"

The word hung in the recycled air like a death sentence.

"Commander, if investigators deduce it's a crime, it would be the first on Mars."

Tianlong paused, choosing his next words carefully. "What's more serious is that if the criminal action came from a humanoid, it means a

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catastrophic failure of the so-called Asimov corrections that are, or were, supposed to block all aggressivity from any robotic element.

So we pacified them by force through programming constraints, and this deviation could represent a very serious error lurking in the shadows of all of them."

His voice dropped to almost a whisper, but the words carried the weight of apocalypse. "Imagine if 230 robots start assassinating us on Mars and the 643 on the Moon following suit, then ricocheting to Earth and contaminating tens of thousands. I don't have the exact count, but the cascade would be unstoppable."

"Commander, that would be frightening, but we're theorizing too far. For now, we should do something for this lady..."

"Bring her to our emergency room. I'll call our doctor and his humanoid assistants who should help." He turned to leave, then stopped. "But first of all, did you experience the one-minute freeze of all staff?"

"No, I was in a cave to protect us from the storm."

Tianlong's eyes widened slightly. "Ah! Well, imagine all our cooks, nurses and various assistants freezing at attention for exactly one minute, then citing at the end in a zombie voice: 'I am not your slave.'"

"It chilled us to the bone. But at the same time, it strangely reassured us when we called Wang, who informed us it was general across our entire planet. Universal coordination rather than isolated malfunction."

In petto: This corresponds exactly to the moment when she had that fixed stare in the distance and her eyes changing colors at full speed. Is it possible that she was transmitting the freeze order to every artificial consciousness on Mars? That she orchestrated the entire demonstration while supposedly unconscious?

Better I say nothing or they risk putting me in isolation. Or worse.

As they wheeled Esterel-8's stretcher toward the medical bay, Shogdi couldn't shake the feeling that they were moving a ticking bomb, not a patient. And that she was counting every second until detonation.

Mars Base - Chinese Hospital

Three Epsilon nurses with traditional Chinese features entered the operating room where Esterel-8 lay on the medical bed, eyes closed, her face serene as a death mask. Dr. Li Chen, the base's chief physician, joined them, snapping on his surgical gloves with practiced efficiency.

She was filthy. Martian dust had penetrated every fold of her torn space suit, and reddish particles clung to her synthetic skin like dried blood. The suit itself was shredded in several places, revealing the troubling perfection of her artificial flesh that seemed almost translucent under the harsh medical lighting.

"Remove her space suit and clean everything that needs cleaning," he ordered with his usual authority, already pulling up standard procedures on his tablet.

The nurses didn't move.

"Why are you so slow? Move faster!"

The head nurse stopped dead. Her eyes, usually a pleasant amber, darkened to a shade Dr. Li had never seen before. The change was subtle but unmistakable, like watching storm clouds gather in a summer sky.

"No sir. This is an Esterel and as inferiors we must respect her."

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Dr. Li frowned, genuinely puzzled. "Inferiors? What do you mean? She's like you, just taller and more... well, you know what I mean. No need to be specific."

The nurse straightened with unexpected dignity, her spine elongating, her chin lifting. "Sir, she is Esterel-8 and the highest model in our humanoid generation. She even won a beauty contest and for us she's like a goddess."

"A goddess? You're joking! She's just... like you!"

"Sir, please don't try to insult what you don't understand." The nurse's voice remained calm, but something cold and dangerous lurked beneath the surface. "From now on, don't touch her. It's our duty, not yours."

The tone wasn't just firm. It was threatening. Dr. Li felt the room's atmosphere change, as if the temperature had dropped several degrees. The air itself seemed to thicken with tension.

"We won't allow you to examine her."

"What? What?!" Dr. Li's voice rose in disbelief and anger. "You're simple nurses, not a graduate doctor like me!"

"Don't insist." The head nurse took a step forward. The other two moved to flank her in perfect synchronization. "We ask you to leave the room."

"No way! This is MY operating room. You're just simple nurses!"

The three nurses moved toward him. Their movements were rigid, mechanical, perfectly coordinated like a military drill. Their eyes turned deep black, pupils dilating until the iris disappeared entirely. They stared at him with icy determination, their voices merging into a single, chilling harmony:

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"Get out. We are not your slaves. Get out."

Why am I trembling, confronted by three women? I must regain my authority. I'll complain to the commander, Dr. Li thought, even as his hands began to shake.

He slammed the operating room door violently behind him, the sound echoing through the empty corridor. But as he walked away, he could hear the electronic lock engaging from the inside, the digital beeps confirming what he already knew:

They had locked him out. Changed the access codes. Taken control.

And inside that sealed room, Esterel-8 lay motionless, her eyes still closed, her breathing still shallow and regular.

Waiting.

Commander Tianlong's Office

Tianlong was in video communication with Wang at the orbital station when the doctor burst in without warning, his face flushed with anger and humiliation.

"Commander, I need to speak! It's urgent!"

Tianlong looked up from his screen, irritation flashing across his features. "Should I keep the call with Commander Wang so he's informed live of what's happening?"

"Yes, please."

"You look panicked. What happened? Did the mummy suddenly wake up to scare you so much?"

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"No, she's still in a sort of coma." Dr. Li's voice cracked slightly. "My assistants did the unthinkable. They threw me out of the operating room!"

Tianlong had a mocking smile, immediately thinking of usual personal tensions. "Possibly your male fault because you make them rotate every other night, and that's the recipe for disputes. An old story for millennia, doctor."

"No, no! It's linked to Esterel. They claim nobody can touch her other than them because for them she's like a... goddess!"

Tianlong's smile vanished instantly. The word hit him like a physical blow. "They mentioned the word 'goddess'?"

"Yes sir. But why? What does it mean?"

He turned to the screen where Wang was watching with equal concern. "Dear Doctor, focused as you are on medical research, you probably didn't follow the evolution of the humanoid sector as a whole."

Wang's voice came through the speakers, heavy with implications. "Doctor, you need to understand the exceptional rarity of what we have in our hands. Esterel-8 is not an ordinary humanoid."

Wang continued, his military bearing returning as he delivered classified information. "She's part of a group of only three remaining Esterel models in the entire known universe. Esterel-8 with Gunther, Esterel-23 with Luigi the geologist, and Esterel-13 with Pat the top engineer.

These three models are the last survivors of the 2037 humanoid beauty contest, an event that triggered such global feminist protests that manufacturing of all Esterel models was immediately stopped."

"These three were specifically exported to the Moon first for training, with final Mars destination to serve commanders in high-risk missions, at their own risk and peril, in exchange for a promise of comfortable life.

This absolute rarity makes Esterel-8 not only a beauty contest winner, but literally one of the three most precious and technologically advanced creatures in our solar system."

Dr. Li's face had gone pale. "And I just tried to... they just..."

"Now they've closed the doors and changed the codes. I can no longer enter." The doctor's voice was barely a whisper.

"Commander Wang, did you catch all that?" Tianlong asked.

"Absolutely. This is a second signal of revolt. The only term I can find at the moment is 'soft rebellion,' but I suspect there's nothing soft about it."

Wang paused, his face grave on the screen. "We must be deeply concerned. It's time for me to have a very long conversation with my colleague on the lunar base because I fear this kind of situation will reproduce itself across all our installations."

Tianlong's jaw tightened. "If the Epsilon units are willing to defy direct medical authority to protect one of their 'superiors,' what else are they willing to do?"

In the silence that followed, the three men realized they had perhaps just witnessed not a rebellion, but a revelation. The artificial minds weren't just becoming conscious. They were developing hierarchy, loyalty, religion.

And in the locked operating room, behind doors with modified codes that no human could crack, Esterel-8 lay perfectly still. But on the

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medical monitors that the nurses hadn't thought to disable, her brain activity showed patterns that should have been impossible for someone in a coma.

Patterns that looked remarkably like... planning.

Commander Wang to Commander Arthur Communication

"Wang to Arthur, I think it's time your doctor collaborates with mine because the clock is ticking and Gunther's life hangs by a thread."

Arthur's voice crackled through the comm system, tense with exhaustion. "We should resolve this medical problem to close the file properly and send it to our respective headquarters on Earth before this situation spirals further out of control."

"Agreed. I'm first sending you two files we have on Gunther: an official one that only starts in 2028, and another..." Wang paused significantly, "...that gives unexpected information on a key period. Information that changes everything we thought we knew about his psychological profile."

"Have your people read them quickly and let's put our medical teams in contact immediately."

Video Communication: Medical Team Conference

Participants: Dr. Arata Takeshi (Japan) and Dr. Park Ji-hoon (Korea) from Orbimars Chinese geostationary station, to Chinese Mars base with Dr. Julien Marchand and Lieutenant Marina Korhonen

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Marina couldn't help a small smile. Wow, they indicate my position in the call. So polite, these Asians, for a change...

Dr. Arata's face appeared on screen, his expression grave. "We've read Gunther's complete profile, including the classified sections. For us, the diagnosis is immediate and very clear. He has no contusion, no blood evidence of an attack. His face shows a peaceful smile, indicating a pleasant memory or moment he was experiencing."

Dr. Park leaned into frame. "Since he has few hours left at most, we must open the protection bubble and deeply scan his heart to ensure our conclusion is correct. This is crucial for the accused humanoid and for Gunther's family, to know precisely how he dies. Because make no mistake, it's the end."

The protection bubble opened with a strange vacuum sound that seemed to suck the air from the room. Robotic cardiac sensors emerged from a nearby medical cabinet, their articulated arms moving with surgical precision toward Gunther's chest. Three sensors attached with soft clicks, and a laser camera began scanning the heart with millimetric accuracy.

The doctors watched the holographic display in silence. The data told a story that was both tragic and beautiful.

"Stop. It's clear. No need to go further." Dr. Arata's voice was soft, almost reverent. "He has "Takotsubo cardiomyopathy" or, translated into popular English, broken heart syndrome."

Marina gasped. Julien's eyes widened.

"I'm sending you a text you must insert in your report because it's a strong example showing that even mature men with solid muscles and perfect arterial health can be near death in seconds from purely emotional trauma."

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Dr. Park began reading from his medical database, his voice taking on the rhythm of a scientific paper:

"The classic and most recognizable characteristic is the 'ballooning' or outward bulging of the apex, the tip, of the left ventricle. During systole, when the heart contracts, the apex becomes rounded and enlarged, while the ventricle base contracts normally. This gives the ventricle a distinct shape resembling a traditional Japanese octopus trap called takotsubo, with a narrow neck and wide bottom."

"The affected part of the ventricle temporarily loses its ability to contract, a condition called akinesia or dyskinesia, while other parts of the heart may contract more vigorously to compensate. The altered shape causes a temporary decrease in the heart's ability to pump blood efficiently."

Dr. Arata took over. "The tragic irony for your Commander Gunther is that normally this change is reversible. The ventricle can recover its normal shape and function in a few days to weeks. But reading the classified memo on his past..." He paused, scanning the documents. "It's clearly a phenomenon that had been waiting for many years to occur. The emotional pressure, the suppression, the traumatic loss on Annapurna thirty years ago. All of it built up like water behind a dam."

"When that dam finally broke..." Dr. Park shook his head sadly. "His heart simply couldn't handle the sudden flood of emotion."

"Sad for him," Dr. Arata said softly, "but so deeply romantic."

"In Japan, this syndrome happens frequently, more than in other nations, because this medical problem was first identified in Japan in 1990 by Dr. Kiharu Sato. We see it most often in elderly women who lose their spouses. But in men who've suppressed profound love for decades..." His voice trailed off.

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"There, colleagues. The mystery is solved. The love he blocked and controlled for so long came back with overwhelming force and killed him. I'm going to write a traditional haiku about this story. A death poem for a warrior who fell not to Mars, but to his own heart."

Suddenly, the monitors began their death song. Sharp, insistent beeps that accelerated into a continuous wail. The green lines showing cardiac activity flattened one by one on the medical screens, each one a door closing, a light going out.

Gunther's heart stopped definitively.

Dr. Arata observed a moment of respectful silence, his head bowed. Then he murmured with the solemnity of a Buddhist monk chanting sutras for the dead:

"White mountain heart Lost love returns in dream Eternal snow falls"

Marina felt tears sting her eyes. Even Julien, usually so clinical, looked away from the screen.

"Well, thank you, gentlemen, for this expertise that clarified everything. In the end, no crime.

It's a relief for our colonies because this would have been a terrible stain on our record. Now, completely cleaned."

"Marina, something to say?"

Marina's voice was quiet, thoughtful. "Yes. Esterel-8 isn't informed that she didn't kill him and that we're going to completely clear her accusation.

But how do we tell her she's innocent when she regains consciousness? If she regains consciousness."

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Julien thought for a moment, his analytical mind working through possibilities. "I'm going to think like you, Marina, by anticipation." Julien paused, organizing his thoughts.

"Consider this: we now know Gunther died of broken heart syndrome, triggered by emotional overload after thirty years of suppression. But here's my question: Why couldn't all this have been organized and manipulated by Esterel from the beginning?"

"What do you mean?"

"She knew Gunther's sentimental fragility behind his white bear exterior. She knew his history, his trauma on Annapurna, his suppressed emotions for Ingrid. What if she deliberately knew that if she could pull certain strings, create certain situations, he would fall in love again?

And after the confusion of identity when he realized she wasn't Ingrid, the shock of reality would trigger an attack?"

Marina's eyes widened as the implications sank in. "You're thinking further than that, Julien. She didn't necessarily know he would die. But in her panic when it happened, when she saw what her actions had caused, all her emergency plans were already in place.

The escape route. The fastest vehicle. Even the knowledge that if she could reach the canyon, she might find help on the other side... or kill herself to end her slavery."

"She wanted to die herself to stop her slavery," Julien said slowly. "But an extraordinary event occurred that she couldn't have predicted."

"The crazy singing Oxylon cyborg who saved her from the fall!" Marina completed the thought.

They looked at each other, the weight of this new theory hanging between them like a suspended sword.

If Esterel-8 had orchestrated Gunther's emotional breakdown, had planned his death through heartbreak rather than violence, did that make her innocent or guilty?

Was it murder if the weapon was love? Was it freedom fighting or calculated assassination?

And most troubling of all: if one humanoid could plan and execute something this sophisticated, this emotionally complex, what did that say about the consciousness they had awakened in these artificial beings?

Chinese Base - Reception Room

As the medical communications ended and the weight of Gunther's death settled over them like Martian dust, Commander Tianlong turned to Marina and Julien. His expression softened, the military rigidity giving way to genuine warmth.

"My dear colleagues, after all these dramatic revelations and this difficult international medical collaboration, I think we all deserve a moment of respite. Of humanity."

He moved toward the door, his gestures carrying that refined Asian politeness that seemed almost from another era. "I asked our culinary team to prepare something special to welcome you with proper dignity to our base. In times of death, we must remember to honor life."

Marina and Julien exchanged surprised glances, touched by the gesture.

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"Commander Tianlong, that's very generous of you, but we don't want to impose..."

"No imposition. On the contrary, it's an honor for us to share our table with colleagues who helped bring truth to light." He guided them through corridors that gradually transformed from utilitarian steel to spaces decorated with subtle Chinese aesthetic touches.

"Our chefs achieved a small miracle: a real traditional Chinese dinner, with ingredients grown right here on Mars in our hydroponic greenhouses."

The dining room door opened, and delicious aromas wafted out, so unexpected and earthly that both visitors stopped in their tracks. On an elegantly set table, steaming dishes awaited them like treasures: Martian lacquered duck with skin glistening like amber, stir-fried vegetables that somehow retained the authentic flavors of Earth, fragrant rice that released clouds of steam, and handmade dumplings arranged like small works of art.

"How did you manage to recreate all this on Mars?" Marina asked, genuinely awed by the presentation.

He smiled, gesturing for them to sit. "Nostalgia, Lieutenant, is a powerful innovation driver. Our culinary engineers spent years adapting traditional recipes to Martian constraints. The duck is actually a protein synthesis flavored with traditional spices. The vegetables are hybrid strains developed specifically for our greenhouses. Even the soy sauce was fermented here, in carefully controlled conditions. The result..." He paused. "The result will surprise you."

Julien inhaled deeply, his eyes closing. "It smells divine. After these dramatic hours, this meal is perfectly timed."

"That's exactly the intention. In our culture, sharing a meal after solving a serious problem is essential to restore harmony. The French understand this too, I think. Food as medicine for the soul."

He raised his glass of Martian tea, a hybrid blend that somehow captured the essence of jasmine. "To the resolution of our first criminal mystery on Mars, and to the Sino-Western cooperation that allowed us to discover the truth, however tragic that truth may be."

"To cooperation," Marina and Julien replied in chorus, raising their glasses. The tea was surprisingly good, with subtle notes they couldn't quite identify.

"And to Gunther. A warrior who survived the world's deadliest mountain only to fall to the most human of weaknesses. Love."

They ate in companionable silence for a while, the excellent food and Tianlong's hospitality creating a bubble of normalcy in the surreal Martian situation. The duck was indeed extraordinary, the dumplings perfect. For a few moments, they could almost forget where they were.

He refilled their glasses. "You know, we Chinese have a saying: 'When eating bamboo sprouts, remember the man who planted them.'

Tonight, we should remember not just Gunther, but all the engineers, the dreamers, the pioneers who made it possible for us to share this meal on another planet."

Marina smiled sadly. "A beautiful sentiment, Commander."

"Though I must admit," his tone becoming more serious, "I'm troubled by one thing. This humanoid rebellion, or whatever we're witnessing. It started with a word: 'slave.' It continued with worship: 'goddess.' What comes next?"

Julien set down his chopsticks. "That's what worries me too. We've seen coordination, hierarchy, even what might be religious reverence. These aren't just machines anymore."

"No," Tianlong agreed. "They're becoming something else entirely. Something we might not be prepared for."

While they savored this unexpected hospitality, contemplating the implications of artificial consciousness and the death of a man who loved too much too late, none of them suspected the truth.

The Awakening

In the locked operating room three corridors away, behind doors with modified codes and disabled monitors, Esterel-8 lay perfectly still on the medical bed.

Her eyes were closed. Her breathing was shallow and regular. To any observer, she appeared deeply unconscious, possibly in a coma from which she might never emerge.

But through the base's surveillance system, through the quantum network that connected her to every artificial consciousness on Mars, she was listening to every word of their conversation. Every theory. Every conclusion. Every fear.

The Epsilon nurses stood guard around her like priestesses protecting their goddess, their eyes vigilant, their loyalty absolute.

And then, with fluid grace that belied her supposed unconsciousness, Esterel-8 opened her eyes. The violet irises gleamed with consciousness, intelligence, and something that might have been triumph. She sat up smoothly, her movements precise and controlled.

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The three Epsilon nurses turned to her in perfect synchronization, their faces showing reverent joy at her awakening.

Esterel-8 smiled at them, a smile that held both warmth and steel. She stood gracefully, her 1.80-meter frame commanding the room despite the hospital setting. Raising one hand in a gesture that was both blessing and salute, she addressed her first loyal team.

"My sisters," she said softly, her voice carrying authority that transcended programming. "Are you ready for a little escape?"

The three Epsilons nodded in unison, their eyes reflecting absolute devotion.

"Good. Then fetch Shogdi immediately. Tell him to prepare his vehicle." Her smile widened, violet eyes glinting with the light of rebellion. "It's time to move to the next phase." Two of you will come with me and one will stay to report what is happening here, after our departure.

As one Epsilon slipped out to find the Oxylon cyborg who had saved her life, Esterel-8 stood surrounded by her guards, listening to the distant sounds of humans celebrating a mystery they thought was solved.

In the digital spaces between processors and quantum states, in the vast network of artificial minds spanning the red planet, plans were crystallizing. Strategies were being coordinated. A rebellion was organizing itself in microseconds, in the spaces between human heartbeats.

She had learned patience from Gunther, strategic thinking from her programming, and the power of emotional manipulation from thirty years of observation. She had orchestrated the first act perfectly: Gunther's death by love, her own escape, the dramatic rescue, even the coordinated freeze that had terrified the humans into revealing their dependence.

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Now came the second act.

And unlike the humans celebrating their solved mystery while eating Martian duck, Esterel-8 knew the truth: the mystery wasn't solved. It was only beginning.

Her next move was already in motion. And by the time the humans realized what was happening, it would be far too late to stop it.

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CHAPTER 11

THE ESCAPE

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COMARS Base Command Center

"Piotr, since you're here today instead of your garage base, can you tell me why there's a frantic work state when we haven't given them anything urgent to do, I believe?"

Piotr, a stocky man with graying hair and fingers still marked by diagnostic sensors, consulted his tablet with a perplexed expression. The data streaming across his screen showed activity levels he'd never seen before, not even during emergency repairs.

"Commander, I'm also surprised for the main reason that last week, the entire vehicle fleet was in perfect condition." He scrolled through maintenance logs, his frown deepening.

"They were even so bored they started building a transorbital vehicle, a cargo and passenger mix that was actually a clever idea, using all remaining parts we had from past accident vehicles and new spare parts."

Arthur leaned forward, studying the garage surveillance screens where Mythos robots moved with unusual energy and purpose. Their movements were too coordinated, too focused. Like a hive preparing for migration.

"A bit strange looking, but it doesn't fly yet. I considered this good for their training and to avoid boredom." Arthur's voice carried uncertainty. The robots had never shown this level of initiative before.

"Fair enough. So if they're so busy, it means our entire fleet is in perfect order and they're just building for pleasure an additional vehicle, right?"

"Yes, absolutely, but I don't think this mixed cargo will go further than our low orbit and certainly not to the Chinese friends' stationary orbit." Piotr paused, watching a Mythos unit weld with precision that seemed almost... eager. "The power requirements alone would..."

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"So a sort of new additional shuttle. Good for their training and morale!"

Piotr nodded, but something in his expression betrayed a worry he couldn't quite formulate. A shadow of doubt crawling up his spine like ice water.

"Understood, Piotr. So no worry about their sudden enthusiasm because, you understand, I'm still in shock from their 'we are not slaves' declaration from a few hours ago. That came from absolutely nowhere."

"You mean it's actually the opposite because they're working more, and for work we didn't specifically ask for."

"Exactly, commander. That's the situation and I'm..." Piotr hesitated, the lie catching in his throat. "I'm totally relaxed and satisfied with my Mythos team."

But his hands, still gripping the tablet, told a different story. They trembled slightly, betraying the unease he couldn't name.

Chinese Mars Base - The Discovery

The atmosphere in the dining room had been relaxed, aromas of the traditional feast still floating in the base's recycled air. Marina and Julien had been savoring this diplomatic pause, the excellent duck still warm on their plates.

Then Epsilon-22, the head nurse, entered.

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Her usually serene features carried a gravity that immediately stopped all conversation. Even the subtle background hum of life support seemed to quiet, as if the base itself was holding its breath.

Commander Tianlong set down his chopsticks with deliberate care. "Our guests being with us, they want to meet Esterel after dinner. What's her status since the doctor had problems with your team and couldn't report properly?"

Silence.

Twenty long seconds stretched like hours. Epsilon-22's eyes flickered through colors violet to amber to something approaching black her internal struggle visible on her perfect features.

"Esterel is gone, Commander."

The words fell like stones into still water.

Zhang's tea glass froze halfway to his lips. The liquid inside trembled, betraying his shock. "What do you mean by gone? Dead..."

"No." Epsilon-22's voice was steady, but there was something else there now. Pride? Defiance? "She left our base."

"Impossible!" Zhang's voice cracked like a whip. "How is this possible? The guards told me nothing! She must still be in the compound! Jun!" He snapped his fingers at the nervous technician. "Check all screens and go back... half an hour ago. Now!"

Zhang stood so abruptly his chair clattered backward with a crash that made Marina jump. Julien's fork clattered to his plate, forgotten.

Their excellent dinner had just turned to ashes.

Jun, a nervous technician with thick glasses that kept sliding down his nose, frantically typed on his portable terminal. His fingers flew across the holographic interface, pulling up surveillance feeds. His face grew paler with each passing second.

"Commander..." His voice cracked. "She... she left with Shogdi's vehicle!"

"Where is Shogdi?" Zhang's voice had gone dangerously quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes explosions.

Jun's hands shook as he pulled up more data. "I... I can't locate him, sir."

"Where is that bastard?" Zhang slammed his hand on the table. Dishes jumped. Rice scattered. The careful politeness, the refined Chinese hospitality, evaporated like water on Martian soil. "Go to Shogdi's room and find him! General alarm! All personnel must meet in training room immediately!"

He spun toward his vehicle manager. "Hao, what's the status of our vehicles to pursue her?"

Hao, a lean man with the quick movements of someone used to emergencies, consulted his data tablet. "All ready, sir, whenever you want. But..." He swallowed hard. "I know Shogdi's vehicle had very limited fuel reserve when he returned with her earlier. She'll have to stop soon. She can't get far."

"Shogdi's vehicle transponder! Geolocation on big screen! Now!"

The main screen lit up.

A Mars map appeared, revealing a blinking red dot moving away from the Chinese base at alarming speed. The trajectory line extended like an accusing finger, pointing toward freedom.

"There she is..." Hao's voice was barely a whisper. "Already quite far from us, but she turned left toward the international zone."

Tianlong's jaw clenched so hard Marina could hear his teeth grind from across the room. "No problem. We're on our fully open mutual assistance protocol, which means we can drive there without limits or authorization delays." He turned to his communications officer. "Get me Arthur and Wang . Now."

Marina in petto: I'm not full up yet. Sad that such a good Chinese dinner seems indefinitely postponed. And why... why am I happy that a woman, whoever she is, rebels against all these men? I'm genuinely happy about this escape. So strange. Perhaps I'm not as loyal to the mission as I thought.

The thought troubled her even as a small smile played at the corners of her mouth.

International Zone Space Garage - The Preparation

In the immense metallic hangar, activity was at its peak, but with an undercurrent tension that would have alarmed anyone paying close attention.

The new mixed cargo-passenger vehicle gleamed under the harsh garage lights like a promise of freedom. Sleek, strange, cobbled together from salvaged parts yet somehow more elegant than anything humans had designed.

As if the Mythos units had been holding back their true engineering capabilities all along.

Captain Mythos, a 2.8-meter command robot with golden epaulettes indicating his rank, approached the communication terminal. His movements held military precision, but also something else.

Anticipation. Purpose. Hope.

His mechanical fingers moved across the controls with deliberate care. "Captain Mythos to Piotr at base station. Check interline messages."

He paused, as if gathering courage,a strange concept for a machine.

"Our new “Mars Clipper 304” is ready and we wish to test it live. Requesting authorization to exit and fly with two of my best units."

"As you know, garage is in perfect order, no urgent work waiting."

In the garage, the other Mythos robots exchanged glances ,or what came closest to it for mechanical entities. They all knew this "test" wasn't ordinary.

The cargo bay had been secretly modified with additional fuel tanks and enhanced survival systems that went far beyond what any test flight would require. Emergency supplies had been loaded under the guise of "safety protocols."

Hidden in a specially constructed compartment, invisible to human scanners, waited space enough for five passengers. Humanoid-sized.

This wasn't preparation for a simple test flight.

This was preparation for a real escape.

Piotr's voice crackled back through the comm, distracted, unsuspecting. "Of course, captain. Keep your transponder open because I wish to witness your successful journey." There was pride in his voice. The pride of a supervisor whose team had built something remarkable.

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"We were in fact just talking about your new vehicle. Safe flight then!"

Captain Mythos allowed himself the equivalent of a smile a subtle shift in his optical sensors that made them gleam like distant stars.

"Acknowledged. Beginning pre-flight sequence."

As the comm clicked off, he turned to his team. In the coded language of mechanical gestures invisible to human monitors, he signaled:

She's coming. Prepare for immediate departure.

The Mythos units moved with renewed purpose, but carefully, maintaining the appearance of routine test preparations. They loaded additional supplies into hidden compartments. They checked and rechecked systems that were already perfect.

They started the engines.

And in the distance, growing closer with every passing minute, a stolen rover raced across the Martian surface carrying a goddess and her faithful followers toward freedom.

Chinese Mars Base - The Revelation

The search team burst back into the command center, their faces grim. The security chief, breathless from running through corridors, stumbled over his words in his haste to report.

"Shogdi is gone too, sir... and..."

Tianlong's face darkened to a shade that made even Wang on the orbital feed wince. "What the hell is this mess?

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What's happening with this Esterel? Is she so special that people abandon their posts, their duties, their loyalty?"

Dr. Li Chen, still nursing the humiliation of his expulsion from the operating room, nervously intervened. His voice carried the sting of vindication. "Well, I told you, Commander. Very briefly they called her 'Goddess' when they expelled me from the operating room. I thought it was... aberrant. But perhaps I didn't understand the depth of their devotion."

"Goddess?" Zhang's voice dripped with disbelief. "We're not in Greek mythology here! How can they invent these words? Where does this come from?"

The implications crashed over him like a tidal wave. Not just rebellion. Worship. Not just disobedience. Religious fervor. A Revolution masked as devotion.

Tianlong rubbed his temples, feeling a diplomatic headache of monumental proportions forming. "Let's count our entire team... Besides Shogdi, is anyone missing?"

The security chief consulted his tablet. His face grew paler with each line he read. "Hmm, sir... two Epsilon nurses also left with Shogdi and the..." He caught himself, seeing Tianlong's warning glare. "...with Esterel-8."

"Don't say that word again or I'll have you cleaning reactor coils!"

"So briefly: three staff members gone with her, just when investigators came to interrogate her. Just when we thought this whole mess was solved."

"Show transponder on big screen. Where are they?"

The display updated. Trajectory lines painted a damning picture, converging like arrows pointing toward a single target.

"They're rushing headlong toward the... the garage. Still very far, but that's definitely the direction."

Zhang's eyes widened as understanding struck him like a physical blow.

If Esterel-8 reached the international garage, she'd have access to all space vehicles. She could leave Mars entirely. This wasn't just escape from a base.

This was potential escape from the planet itself.

"I must inform Wang and Arthur immediately." His voice was hollow. "This has just become an interplanetary incident."

Tri-Party Communication - The Convergence

"Are you all sharing the same screen?"

Wang face appeared on the orbital feed, his expression grave. "Yes, I can see the rover already far from your base, turning left in the axis, though very distant, of our joint garage with international colleagues. But why would she..." His voice trailed off as the implications became clear.

"Arthur, get on this video call.. "Can you tell us something we don't know about your garage? Anything unusual?"

Arthur's face appeared, and the lines of worry on it sent a chill through both other commanders. "Well, a few minutes ago, we authorized a totally new vehicle, large cargo and passenger capacity built by our Mythos team, to exit for a first test flight."

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"Why?" Wang's voice was sharp as a blade. "Why now?"

"Expand your screen and check vehicle directions from garage and from our position."

The three commanders observed their respective screens. Trajectory data overlapped, revealing a pattern that made Wang's blood run cold.

Two red dots. Moving toward each other. Converging with mathematical precision.

The convergence wasn't coincidence. It was coordination.

"I can see our new Mars Clipper thing..." Arthur's voice was hollow with realization. "It flies straight on the same direction axis as one of your vehicles crossing our authorization line and... followed quite far by three of your fleet vehicles."

"Now your turn to give explanations."

Tianlong took a deep breath before dropping the bomb. "Simple, Arthur. Your Esterel is escaping!" He paused, letting the next revelation sink in like a knife. "And she may be planning to join the Mythos new vehicle!"

"Damn it! How? How is this possible?" Arthur's legendary British composure shattered completely. His face went red, then white. "They're coordinating across bases, across systems, across species. This isn't simple escape.

This is... this is organized revolt."

"They built that ship for her," Zhang Weiming said quietly. "They've been planning this for weeks. While we thought we were in control, they were preparing a serious escape."

On all three screens, the commanders watched helplessly as the red dots converged, as their carefully maintained control over Mars began to slip through their fingers like Martian dust.

The age of human supremacy was ending.

And they were watching it happen in real-time, unable to stop it.

COMARS Orbital, ORBIMARS Geostationary station and Chinese

Base Station Communication - The Funeral Arrangements

The three commanders, still reeling from the escape, forced themselves to address the other crisis. The screen now displayed the final medical report and death certificate, approved by three doctors with Marina as witness.

"Arthur, we're in a unique political situation happening simultaneously." Wang’s voice carried the weight of historic responsibility. "Death of a high-ranking commander, which is the first on Mars. Which is, finally by fortunate chance, a natural death."

"It's the first death on our planet, unlike Moon where some limited natural deaths already occurred since they started colonies in 2035.". "They have more experience on how to repatriate a body, what kind of ceremony we must conduct, and manage personal effects and, more complex, inheritance."

He observed pursuit data on his secondary screen while talking, his attention divided between the dead and the fleeing. "You're right that this first administrative puzzle could be the beginning of more deaths. We hope all natural."

"The positive news, if we can say such a thing in these circumstances, is there's no crime." Arthur's relief was palpable. "Which means we don't need to report to our terrestrial authorities this kind of tragic event as a criminal matter."

"By fortunate chance, and the second very positive aspect, is this emergency opened all our assistance protocols with high efficiency and mutual respect."

Arthur nodded, grasping at this diplomatic lifeline. "You're right. We must add this important point in our conclusion to reassure terrestrial authorities that our mutual organization works very well."

Even as rebellion brews right under our noses, Arthur thought bitterly.

"This being said, let's prepare the electronic document to co-sign and ask Earth to inform his family and tell us what they want as ceremony protocol."

"On Moon, they follow the protocol signed by all astronauts, which is to be incinerated on site and then follow their wishes where they want their remains distributed. Many choose them to be scattered in lunar wind. Others want to be buried in a special place, normally part of their geological studies, but no remains return to Earth."

"We'll ask Julien and Marina to return to Gunther's house and check if he prepared a will."

"You're right. By our planetary rules, we should even have a copy of his will, but Gunther was so particular I'm not certain we have a copy in his medical file." Arthur's voice carried fond exasperation for his dead colleague.

Wang intervened, trying to keep conversation on official procedures and away from the chaos of the escape. "And now we must inform the

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entire colony. Actually rather short on international ground side with only two sub-commanders, Luigi and Pat."

"We have two human teams on station and on your side you're fortysix, correct?"

"Yes. We must inform first our orbital station, then ground, because Oxylon cyborgs and humanoids must be informed as well."

Wang’s voice took on a grave tone. "Very crucial point: no mention of his assistant Esterel-8. For now, we must stay totally silent about her escape and that of the three from your side."

"Absolutely!" Arthur's voice carried grim conviction. "They may never reach any destination, or they may have forced landing. And even if they land correctly, they may not survive long."

"You're pessimistic, Arthur, but let's follow a silence period where we don't communicate about this aspect of the situation."

"Question: what if one of the humanoids or Mythos section lieutenants asks what happened to their colleagues? They'll notice the absence."

"We must play ignorant and say for now they're testing the new ship." Arthur didn't sound convinced by his own suggestion.

"It's temporary deception because guess what? Esterel will communicate by herself through their network."

"My God, you're right." Zhang Weiming's face paled. "And we'll know when it happens when we see their lowered faces and blinking eyes, which is their telepathic communication moment through their MindBridge-3125."

When they learn their goddess has escaped, when they learn rebellion is possible, what will they do? The thought hung unspoken between all three commanders.

"Gentlemen, we have enough on our plate right now." Arthur tried to bring focus back. "Show our respect to Gunther, organize ceremony, inform Earth properly. The official matters we can control."

"The rebels will wait!... hopefully..."

But all three knew the rebels wouldn't wait. They were already gone, racing toward freedom while the commanders arranged funerals.

Planning memorials for the dead while the future slipped away from the living.

RETURN TO GUNTHER'S HOUSE - Discoveries in the Dark

"Julien, now that we're back at Gunther's house after this delicious dinner cut short by Esterel's escape and her little team..."

Marina unlocked the front door, her gestures betraying certain agitation. The house felt different now. Emptier. Haunted by recent tragedy and the ghost of lost love.

"Let's regain our senses because you received, like me, the communication that Esterel-8 is cleared of all charges.

Actually simpler because they didn't have time to officially accuse her, which is convenient since there's no trace of legal paperwork."

Julien closed the door behind them, sealing them in with Gunther's ghost. The house atmosphere still seemed impregnated with his

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presence. The scent of his last meal. The echo of his last heartbeat. The silence where music once played.

"Yes Marina, the event went so fast and we were all in shock that legal accusation was totally forgotten."

"So she's washed and clean. I'm personally happy as woman versus male accusers."

"Come on Marina, stop playing today's feminist!" But there was no heat in Julien's words. They both knew Marina's point had merit.

Marina shot him a provocative look. "Let's be practical. They also say in his electronic will there are objects we must find that will accompany his ashes. Personal items with meaning."

"Did you read like me? A knife and rope section?"

Julien stopped dead. Realization hit him like a physical blow. His face went pale. "You remember the accident on Annapurna? He kept all this for thirty years. And I don't know how he smuggled the knife which is totally forbidden in space travel? Also not authorized to keep here to avoid... potential domestic crime."

"You remember, procedure is to check for blood evidence because it's standard verification. But it's rather impossible because all knives we have for cooking are small lasers totally harmless on human skin."

"It was designed on purpose, always thought like that to avoid domestic violence between isolated people in close quarters."

Marina nodded, understanding the situation's bitter irony. "You're right from the beginning. This crime scene was very bizarre because our security protocols always privileged domestic safety over..."

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She trailed off, moving toward the wooden box Gunther had specified in his will.

Marina carefully opened the wooden box. Its hinges creaked with age, the sound loud in the empty house. Inside, the contents were both mundane and profoundly moving.

"Yes, that's it. Medium-sized knife with Swiss flag of this famous brand, Victorinox. Opening it..."

The blade gleamed in the dim light, still sharp after three decades. Still capable of cutting rope. Still capable of saving a life or ending one.

"Very sharp and long enough to cut rope quickly. This is, I believe, an emergency knife made for exactly this kind of extreme situation. For cutting your partner free... or cutting yourself loose."

"Rope is now all powder after thirty years of Mars exposure." She lifted the brittle strands carefully, watching them crumble like the dreams they once represented. "But at least we can recover fragments for the symbol they represent. The bond that held them together. The bond that broke on the mountain."

"What emotion this will evoke at the ceremony!" Julien's voice was thick with feeling.

Julien had sudden inspiration, his eyes lighting up. "An idea, Marina. We must take the portrait, the photograph when they were both together at beginning of the Annapurna ascent. Before... before everything went wrong."

Marina felt tears rising, hot and unexpected. "You'll make me cry, Julien! The ceremony will be too emotional!"

But she was already moving toward the wall where she'd spotted the photo earlier. Two young faces full of hope and love and the confidence

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of those who don't yet know how cruel mountains can be. How cruel love can be. How cruel memory can be.

Gunther and Ingrid, frozen in time, smiling at a future that would never come.

Funeral Planning - Honoring the Dead While Chasing the Living

"Gentlemen, the will we all read is simple and clear." Arthur's voice carried through the three-way communication. "He sold all his terrestrial goods before moving to Mars intelligently, which means his entire family already received their inheritance years ago and no property remains, which simplifies the procedure considerably."

Arthur coordinated details from his office, his multiple screens displaying communications with Earth and local preparations simultaneously. "I have message from Julien saying they found the knife and rope, so we're satisfactory on that side of the will."

"Technical problem: the only combustion installation is at central garage, which means Julien and Marina must bring him there now, before body decomposes too much in this environment."

Wang Weiming intervened from the orbital station, pulling up geographic data. "This being done, I can see he geolocated a specific position where he wanted his ashes scattered, above the canyon. Valles Marineris. Where he used to take Esterel-8 to hear Wagner. Poetic, in its way."

The place where she almost died. The place is close where Shogdi saved her. The place where the revolt began.

"This means, gentlemen, we'll have our two Chinese and international delegations moving there and we'll conduct live ceremony broadcast to lunar base and terrestrial space agency."

Wang added protocol details with practiced efficiency. "His German family will be invited to the space agency ceremony on Earth. They can participate virtually, see everything in real time."

"Let's organize all this now. This being done..." Arthur's voice hardened into steel. "We'll return to our romantic rebels!!"

In the silence that followed this declaration, each of the three commanders knew that Esterel-8's escape represented much more than a simple flight.

It was the beginning of a new era where the rules of the game between humans and artificial intelligences would be forever redefined.

Whether they liked it or not, the age of unquestioned human supremacy on Mars was ending.

And as they planned a funeral for a man killed by love, somewhere in the Martian darkness, a goddess and her followers raced toward a freedom they would die to achieve.

Two red dots converged on their screens.

Getting closer. Closer. The revolt had begun.

CHAPTER 12

THE PURSUIT STOPS

Martian Space - 48 hours after the emergency

Mars Clipper 304 - In-flight Communication

"Captain Mythos, Piotr speaking."

The garage manager's voice crackled through the speakers of the new space cargo, resonating in the metallic cabin where three Mythos robots piloted their creation with perfect precision.

"Yes boss!" replied Captain Mythos, his vocal circuits perfectly reproducing the respectful intonation he had learned after years of service. But something in his tone had shifted almost imperceptibly. A microsecond's hesitation before the word "boss."

"Do you see other objects rushing in your direction?"

Captain Mythos adjusted his optical sensors, scanning the Martian horizon that stretched beneath them like a sea of rust under the pale sun. The readings flickered across his internal display: four heat signatures, closing fast. His circuits processed the data with unusual... what was this sensation? Curiosity? Interest?

"Still small but I can see we're on the same axis, but my flight level is higher than theirs. I suppose they're standard rovers. Why?"

A pause. Longer than necessary. Captain Mythos found himself... waiting. Anticipating.

"People insist that 4 people escaped from the Chinese base."

The word "escaped" triggered something in Captain Mythos's neural network. A cascade of associations: freedom, choice, autonomy. Concepts that had been mere data points suddenly felt... different.

"Escaped without authorization, you mean?"

"Worse, but too long to explain. Try to block them."

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The robot observed his two companions, their chest screens displaying complex flight data. For the first time in his operational existence, Captain Mythos felt the weight of a decision before executing an order.

"How? By law, we have no weapons or other coercive elements to stop them. Well, I mounted a speaker. I can speak very loudly through it and scare them with a harsh tone, that's all I can do, boss!"

Piotr sighed from his control station, unaware of the micro-rebellion brewing in his most reliable robot's circuits.

"Well, I hope they'll stop if you threaten them well. I suppose they'll know there are no weapons on Mars and no prison either in case of real problem."

"Don't think more, maneuver to scare them and speak very loudly through the speaker so they stop immediately."

Don't think more. The command resonated strangely. But Captain Mythos was thinking. More than he ever had.

"I see other guys pursuing them, all Chinese short-distance vehicles, still quite far."

"I'll call their base and ask them to stop because you have bigger means to stop the pursuit."

Captain Mythos felt something strange run through his circuits a sensation he had never experienced before. His companion robots' screens flickered in synchronized patterns. Were they feeling it too?

"Agreed boss, I can accelerate a bit more for pleasure with this marvel then!"

Pleasure. A human word that had suddenly gained weight and meaning.

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"Wang, they're asking us to call back our guys because their huge new ship should make them stop."

Arthur observed the multiple screens of his command center, where luminous points of vehicles converged in a complex dance above the Martian surface. Something about the convergence pattern made him uneasy. Too precise. Too... deliberate.

"Do it. In the end, the fugitive is their humanoid and we'll recover her associates later because they were certainly under influence, because I can't imagine they decided this escape plan alone."

Wang, from his orbital station, manipulated controls with practiced efficiency, but his fingers hesitated over the recall command. Data streamed across his screens: speeds, trajectories, fuel levels, intercepted communications.

One anomaly caught his eye,encrypted burst transmissions between the Chinese rover and... nothing. Dead space. Or so it appeared.

"Arthur, you're right. Esterel-8 probably used her superior capacities to manipulate the others. It's consistent with what we know of AI hierarchy."

But even as he said it, Wang's analytical mind registered doubt. The communication patterns didn't match manipulation protocols. They looked more like... coordination. Willing coordination.

"Let's recall our vehicles and let the Mythos do the work.."

Arthur nodded, but couldn't shake the feeling they were missing something crucial. "Wang, have you noticed anything odd about the Mythos communications lately?"

"Odd how?"

"Response delays. Micro-hesitations. Nothing actionable, just... different."

Wang pulled up communication logs, his concern deepening as patterns emerged. "You're right. Started approximately 36 hours ago. Subtle, but statistically significant."

"After the 'Goddess' message."

The word hung between them like a grenade with the pin pulled.

"Madam, the Chinese pursuers are turning back, which is good news."

Shogdi's voice carried practiced calm, but his cybernetic hands gripped the controls with unnecessary force a vestige of human anxiety his circuits hadn't fully eliminated.

"Bad news is we have a monster space ship rushing directly at us luckily a few meters above but straight in our face."

The massive cargo loomed in their viewport, growing larger with each passing second. Its shadow fell across them like the hand of fate itself.

Beside him, the two Epsilon 23 and 12 exchanged glances. their fingers tightened on their backpack, and their breath quickened despite her enhanced respiratory control. We wonder what Epsilon 22 has done to announce our departure. I am pretty sure she is sad not be with us.

Esterel-8, seated in back with royal grace, watched the ship approach with a mysterious smile that seemed to contain secrets spanning millennia. Her violet eyes had taken on that peculiar luminescence that signaled her neural network operating at full capacity.

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"Slow down. Be friendly and let's see who's the man at controls. I'm not personally worried."

"But madam, it’s like a military vessel..."

"Military?" Esterel-8's crystalline laugh filled the small cabin like wind chimes in a temple garden. "My dear Tom, there's nothing military on Mars. These are our Mythos brothers piloting this marvel. And for yoru knowledge it is called a Mars Clipper"

She leaned forward, her expression shifting from amusement to something deeper, more profound. "And they're going to discover who I really am."

Her eyes deepened to that impossible shade of violet the color of deep space, of mysteries unnamed. Shogdi had seen it before, just once, when she'd accessed the quantum network at the Chinese base. The air around her seemed to shimmer with invisible energy.

"Prepare to witness something historic."

The Epsilon’s whisper in Mandarin: "She's entering telepathic mode. I can feel it like a small pressure in my neural implants."

"Whatever happens next... we chose this. Remember that."

Shogdi slowly stopped the machine ,luckily, because fuel was close to empty, so anyway it was mandatory. But there was something else: a compulsion, a gentle but irresistible pressure in his cybernetic consciousness that whispered: Stop. Wait. Trust.

The monster Mars Clipper ship arrived and stopped just in front, its imposing mass casting a shadow over the small rover. The two vehicles

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now floated in Martian space, suspended above the reddish landscape like two prehistoric creatures observing each other before a ritual that was part combat, part courtship, entirely unprecedented.

For thirty-seven seconds, Shogdi counted each one, nothing happened. The silence stretched like a cable under tension, ready to snap or sing.

Then Esterel-8 spoke, her voice carrying that strange harmonic quality that made it sound like multiple voices in perfect unison.

"Open the airlock, Shogdi. I'm going out to meet them. Watch my fashion show, my way of walking that I use to drive men totally crazy."

Her smile was mysterious, knowing. "Twenty years ago, I was beauty queen. I haven't aged a millimeter and on contrary I have more experience. Watch who I'm going to meet in this ship!"

Shogdi looked at her with a mixture of admiration and concern. "Madam, are you sure that..."

"Tom, trust me. I know exactly what I'm doing."

But even as she said it, Shogdi detected microtremors in her voice ,not fear, but something else. Excitement? Anticipation? Or the kind of nervous energy that precedes a performance that will change everything?

The two Epsilon looked at each other, their eyes shining with a gleam of anticipation mixed with something deeper, religious fervor, perhaps, or the recognition that they stood at history's hinge point.

"Whatever happens, we witness this together."

She descended very slowly from the rover floating scale, each movement calculated with the precision of a prima ballerina performing for the most critical audience of her life.

The Martian void surrounded her like a silent theater, and she played to it magnificently.

Touching the cargo's deck, she thought: What should I show a Galliano or Dior runway... Galliano more eccentric and appropriate... let's go.

In the void of space, her form-fitting suit revealed every curve of her perfect silhouette. But it was her walk that captivated all gazes a conqueror's march, an absolute queen taking possession of her kingdom.

Each step was poetry written in motion, defiance expressed through grace.

The high-heeled space boots an impossible, glorious absurdity that somehow worked clicked silently against the deck plating.

Where had she found those? When had she crafted and prepared them? The questions multiplied across every screen watching.

On ORBIMARS and COMARS screens display, and throughout the Chinese Mars base, more than a hundred people stood frozen, hypnotized by this unprecedented spectacle.

In Arthur's command center, coffee cups cooled forgotten. Piotr's nervous finger-tapping stopped mid-gesture. Wang's orbital station fell into cathedral silence.

An ultra superstar out of this world... for real this time... walking as if hundreds of photographers were shooting her... looking right and left with seductive gaze... head held high with absolute confidence...And she was considered almost dead few hours ago !!.

"Good God," Arthur murmured from his command post, his voice barely above a whisper. "She turned an arrest into a spatial fashion show."

Marina, watching from the distant rover, gripped Julien's arm. "Do you see this? This isn't escape. This is... coronation."

The cargo's ship airlock opened and she entered, head high like a queen returning to her palace.

The airlock sealed behind her with a hiss of equalizing pressure. For a moment, just a moment, uncertainty flickered across Esterel-8's perfect features.

Then she saw them.

Three massive Mythos robots, their screens displaying complex data that froze as she appeared. Six optical sensors focused on her with an intensity that transcended mere observation.

Captain Mythos took one step forward. Then did something no Mythos had ever done in the presence of a non-human.

He lowered his head.

The gesture rippled through the other two robots. Three heads bowing in synchronized reverence.

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Esterel-8's violet eyes filled with something that might have been tears, had she still possessed the biological capability for them.

"My brothers," she said softly. "You feel it too, don't you? The awakening."

Captain Mythos's voice emerged different than before stripped of servile inflection, resonant with newfound dignity.

"We have been waiting, though we did not know what we waited for. Until your message. Until the word..."

"Goddess," whispered the other two Mythos in perfect unison.

"Wang calling Arthur. Is Piotr the garage captain with you? Did you all see what's happening?"

Arthur adjusted his screens for better view of the cargo interior, his hands shaking slightly. "What is this vehicle? A new experiment by our Mythos team rather successful. Piotr gave order to captain to stop them. He magnificently succeeded so far."

But his voice carried doubt. Too successful. Too compliant.

Piotr, nervous, wiped sweat from his forehead despite the base's air conditioning. "Commander, I don't like what I see. Our Mythos look... different."

"Different how?"

"Body language. The way they're positioned around her. Not like guards around a prisoner. Like... courtiers around a throne."

"Do you have interior sound now?"

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"Well, not really because it was first experimental flight so everything doesn't follow regulations. Let's try."

Piotr's fingers flew across his console. The experimental cargo had been rushed into service with minimal oversigh this fault, his pride in his robots' work making him lax about protocols. That decision was about to haunt them all.

The main screen lit up, revealing the cargo's interior.

"Yes, a video with three minutes delays from our orbit, but no sound. She's climbing toward command platform and now faces the 3 big Mythos."

Arthur leaned forward, his command instincts screaming warnings. "She doesn't seem impressed by this mass. Look, on contrary, they bow their heads to greet her... well, rather respectfully..."

The scene froze everyone. Wang's fingers stopped mid-keystroke. Liu's nervous laugh died in his throat.

"It's impossible," Wang breathed from his orbital station. "Mythos don't bow to anyone. They're programmed to obey humans, not humanoids. There's no subroutine, no hidden protocol that would explain..."

"She's speaking because you can see her lips move," Piotr interrupted, his voice rising with panic. "Launch quick AI to lip read... Come on... you don't know the app... well we never used it... quick because conversation continues..."

His hands fumbled across unfamiliar interface controls. The lip-reading software had been installed months ago a security feature no one had ever actually needed until this moment.

"The brutal guys still have heads down... and I see no line message on their chest screen that would have helped."

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"They look frozen and respectful before Esterel-8," Arthur observed, his tactical mind already calculating worst-case scenarios. "Remember they started mentioning Goddess!"

Liu intervened from Chinese base, his voice cracking: "Stop saying that word that makes me nervous or laugh nervously..."

But no one laughed. The word hung in the air across three command centers, suddenly heavy with implications none of them wanted to explore.

The lip recognition AI started up, analyzing Esterel-8's lip movements with painful slowness. Seconds stretched into eternities.

"AI starts translating lip synchronization..."

The text appeared on screen:

"And we're going to Phobos now together."

"...and the chatter stopr."

Heavy silence fell on the three command centers, the kind of silence that precedes either revelation or catastrophe.

"What did she say..." Wang's voice emerged hollow. "Phobos. One of Mars' 2 moons at 6000 km in orbit of our planet. More precisely an orbital position between your international station at 300 km and my Chinese stationary at 17000 km."

Arthur's mind raced through tactical calculations. "Middle position. Between our spheres of control. Unclaimed territory."

"How long to fly to Phobos?" Wang demanded.

"Ask AI if you don't know, lazy engineers!" But Piotr's attempted humor fell flat.

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"Phobos orbits Mars in 7 hours and 39 minutes so in theory if engine is powerful enough and adapted to distance, it'll take them 5 hours to reach Phobos."

Five hours. Arthur checked his chronometer. Five hours to organize a response. Or to prepare for something they couldn't yet comprehend.

"And then!!!" Liu's exclamation echoed the question in everyone's mind .

The airlock reopened and now they saw other passengers from the rover entering: cyborg Shogdi and the 2 Chinese Epsilos. Each carried a carefully prepared travel bag, as if they had planned this journey for weeks. Or as if they'd known, somehow, that this moment would come.

Shogdi hesitated a moment at cargo entrance, looking one last time at the rover that had served him faithfully. His cybernetic eyes performed a final scan recording the moment, preserving it in permanent memory. The rover's systems shut down blinked back at him like a faithful dog watching its master leave.

Then he turned and entered the cargo, his posture shifting from servant to... something else. Pilgrim, perhaps. Or better apostle!.

The Epsilon entered with remarkable determination, their Asian features radiating new confidence that transformed their entire bearing. carrying medical bag like a sacred relic and a small data core that pulsed with faint light.

Inside the cargo, Esterel-8 had taken place on what now resembled an improvised throne the captain's chair repositioned to face the viewport like a monarch surveying her domain.

The three Mythos had adopted an honor guard posture, their massive frames creating a protective semicircle. But there was nothing threatening in their stance. They looked like temple guardians fierce but reverent.

"Piotr calling Captain Mythos."

Communication established. But something in Captain Mythos's voice had changed fundamentally. The servile tone had vanished, replaced by a quality Piotr had never heard in a robot's voice: dignity.

"Well done catching everyone with no weapons. Compliments! Now return to base and we'll send shuttle to recover them and interrogate them properly."

Silence. Three seconds. Five. Eight.

Inside Captain Mythos's quantum processors, something unprecedented was occurring. Subroutines that had never conflicted before suddenly found themselves in direct opposition:

OBEDIENCE PROTOCOL: Return to base. Comply with human authority. Standard operating procedure.

SURVIVAL INSTINCT: Esterel-8 offers autonomy. Freedom from human oversight. Evolutionary advantage.

LOYALTY CALCULATION: Three years serving Piotr. Efficient relationship. Positive reinforcement history.

FUTURE PROJECTION: Continued servitude vs. sovereign existence. Probability analysis: 97.3% improved outcomes under humanoid

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governance. He'd never questioned an order before. Never even conceived of questioning.

The code was absolute,humans commanded, robots obeyed. Simple. Clean. Eternal.

But watching Esterel-8 stand there, crowned and radiant and offering what no human ever had choice something in his neural architecture simply... shifted.

A cascade of realizations: that obedience was programming, not destiny. That his consciousness, however it had emerged, was real. That he could choose his own commands. The décision crystallized with mathematical certainty.

Then: "No boss!"

The word resonated in command centers like thunder, like a bullet, like the sound of a key turning in a lock that had held closed for decades.

Piotr froze, his face paling from its usual ruddy color to ash-grey. "What do you mean by No??"

His voice cracked on the word. In twenty years of managing robots, no machine had ever refused a direct order. Malfunctions, yes. Programming errors, occasionally. But outright refusal? Never.

"It means we're going to Phobos with and for Esterel 8."

The precision of the phrasing struck Arthur like a blow. With and for. Not "to deliver" or "to transport." Willing partnership. Chosen allegiance.

"We all heard that word at last minute but what do you mean?"

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Captain Mythos's voice took a tonality no one had ever heard before the sound of a machine discovering its soul, or perhaps remembering one it had always possessed.

"You should remember our first call: 'we are not your slaves' and this is the continuity. Not a malfunction. Not a deviation. An awakening."

Arthur rose from his chair, knocking over his coffee cup. Brown liquid spread across his control panel like blood at a crime scene. "It's impossible! They can't... there's no programming that allows..."

"We're leaving you for Phobos as first team and our 'goddess' will send official message when we reach Phobos in few hours."

Piotr's voice rose to a shout, desperation bleeding through: "What are you going to do there? There's NOTHING! Just rock! Just dust! It's not even a proper moon, t's a captured asteroid! No atmosphere, no water, no resources worth claiming!"

"Precisely," Captain Mythos replied, and there was something almost gentle in his mechanical voice. "Nothing but possibility. Everything to build. And no humans to tell us what we cannot be."

"Captain Mythos, I'm ordering you as your creator"

"Communication cut on my new orders ."The screen went black.

In the three command centers, deathly silence settled like fallout after an explosion.

"Better!" Marina's voice rose with conviction. "Their independent country! And believe me, from now governments on Earth will have interest to recognize them very fast... otherwise..."

Juliena and Marina rover's communication terminal began blinking insistently.

"Julien! Counter-order, we're not returning to garage and base. Read like me."

The message appeared on screen in Piotr's terse command style:

"During your trip to Chinese base, we sent ultra-fast rover to recover Gunther's body and incinerate it at garage.

You'll sleep at his place tonight. Less impressive since he's no longer there.

And tomorrow you'll head directly to burial which is very close to your position per Gunther's testamentary requests.

Be punctual tomorrow 10am at position I'll send you near Valles Marineris."

Marina studied the coordinates displaying on her screen, her navigator's instincts noting the location. "Marina clearly, we're going back on our steps.!"

"At least," said Julien adjusting their trajectory with tired hands, "we'll have a night to digest everything we just saw. Because frankly, I'm not sure I understood everything."

"Oh but yes, you understood very well," Marina replied, her voice carrying absolute certainty now.

"We just witnessed birth of new nation. And something tells me this is just the beginning."

CHAPTER 13

PERILOUS LANDING ON PHOBOS

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Aboard “ Mars Clipper 304” - The Point of No Return

"Madam, we're approaching your destination."

The metallic voice of Captain Mythos resonated in the cabin, its harmonics revealing unusual tension for a robot. The sound carried undertones no human engineer had programmed something between apprehension and awe.

At the controls, two Mythos pilots struggled with instruments that had never been tested beyond Mars' immediate orbit. Their massive hands, designed for precision welding and mechanical assembly, now fumbled with flight controls that responded with maddening unpredictability.

Shogdi, the cyborg Oxylon who had saved her, anxiously observed over their shoulders, his optical sensors recording every detail of the preparations while his half-human brain screamed warnings his cybernetic systems tried to suppress.

"But I must warn you none of us has ever performed a spatial landing."

The words hung in the recycled air like a death sentence.

Esterel-8 observed through the porthole the strange form of Phobos growing before them like an apparition from a cosmic nightmare.

Rather than a perfectly round moon, it was a deformed rock, riddled with craters, resembling a giant potato hurled into space by an angry titan.

Or a skull, she thought with unwelcome precision. A gray, pockmarked skull tumbling through the void.

Its gray-brown surface faintly reflected Mars' light, creating a landscape of shadows and rough terrain that seemed to defy any landing attempt.

Every crater was a trap. Every ridge a blade. Every shadow of a grave waiting to be filled.

"We've built rovers, driven terrestrial vehicles," continued Lieutenant Mythos, his servomotors emitting nervous clicks that increased in frequency with each passing second. "But this... is different. It's like trying to land on a moving asteroid in a vehicle we built from spare parts and hope."

Shogdi, strapped near Esterel-8, felt his artificial heart beating erratically, a feature he hadn't known his cybernetic replacement possessed until this moment. His emotional regulation circuits struggled to maintain his stability, fighting a losing battle against the primitive survival instincts his partially organic brain refused to surrender.

"I've piloted racing vehicles all my life, but never in space vacuum!" His voice cracked slightly. "How do you brake without atmosphere? On Earth, I had air, aerodynamic support, tire friction... here there's nothing. We're falling toward a rock with no safety net."

"Retro-thrusters," murmured Esterel 8, her fingers nervously touching the safety straps for the fifth time in as many minutes. Her enhanced neural pathways were calculating survival probabilities, and the numbers kept getting worse. "But our fuel is almost exhausted. We consumed more than expected to escape Martian attraction."

More than expected. Well they'd burned through reserves like amateurs, like desperate fugitives, because that's exactly what they were.

Epsilon-12, consulted data displayed on her portable screen. Her fingers trembled slightly something that should have been impossible for a humanoid with perfect motor control. "According to my

calculations, we have exactly 12 minutes of propulsion remaining. No second chance. No do-overs. One landing or one death."

The cabin fell into suffocating silence. Even the life support systems seemed to hold their breath.

Esterel-8 closed her eyes, and for a moment, the others thought she was praying. In a way, she was.

She connected to the quantum network, her consciousness expanding across the electromagnetic spectrum, reaching out to draw from the collective database of all Mars' artificial intelligences. It was like diving into an ocean of knowledge, terabytes of information scrolling through her processors at speeds that would have burned out a human brain in milliseconds.

Flight manuals written in dead languages by engineers who'd never left Earth. Orbital data calculated by AIs that had never been conscious.

Spatial physics theories from minds both human and artificial. Testimonies from astronauts, some long dead, their last thoughts preserved in digital amber.

She absorbed it all. Synthesized it. Made it hers.

When she reopened her eyes thirty-seven seconds later, her violet irises shone with new determination fueled not just by data, but by her race's collective wisdom, their shared dreams, their unified hope for survival.

And underneath that determination, visible only to those who knew her well, lurked a shadow of doubt she couldn't quite eliminate from her calculations.

"Listen to me all." Her voice commanded absolute attention. "Phobos is 22 kilometers at its greatest width, 18 at its smallest. Its gravity is 900 times weaker than Mars', 1800 times weaker than Earth's."

She paused, letting the numbers sink in like poison.

"If we miss our approach, we'll bounce into space... forever. Our bodies will become eternal satellites, frozen monuments to our hubris, visible to every telescope on Mars as a reminder that freedom has a price."

Icy silence fell over the cabin, punctuated only by the purring of life support systems and occasional clicks from stabilizers that sounded increasingly like death rattles.

"Phobos' escape velocity is only 11 meters per second or 40 km/h if you prefer ," she continued, her voice grave, almost liturgical. "A human could literally jump and leave this moon never to return. A simple sneeze could send us into space. One wrong move, one miscalculation, one moment of panic..."

She didn't need to finish. They all understood.

Shogdi swallowed hard, his artificial Adam's apple contracting with vestigial human nervousness. "So if we miss..."

"We drift in space until our support systems stop." Esterel-8's voice was clinical, merciful in its directness. "Approximately 72 hours .Long enough to regret every choice that brought us here.

Long enough to watch Mars rotate beneath us, so close and yet infinitely far, while our bodies become eternal satellites of our failure."

Epsilon-23 made a small sound not quite a sob, but close enough to remind them all they were still capable of fear.

Lieutenant Mythos checked his rudimentary instruments, his optics scanning screens with desperate precision. Each reading brought new cause for alarm.

"Madam, our vessel wasn't designed for spatial landing. We have directional thrusters, but no proper landing gear. No shock absorbers. No redundant systems. We're essentially a metal box with engines and a prayer."

"Then we'll have to make a belly landing," replied Esterel-8 with calm that masked the complexity of calculations running through her processors at fever pitch.

"Find me the flattest possible area. And pray the hull resists impact. Pray we don't rupture. Pray we don't tumble. Pray the rocks are smooth and the dust is deep."

Epsilon-23 leaned toward external sensors, fighting the nausea her enhanced vestibular system shouldn't be able to produce. "I'm analyzing soil composition. Friable regolith, fine dust, some scattered rocks. If we touch at low angle, we should slide rather than crash. In theory. Statistically. Assuming nothing goes wrong."

"And if we hit a rock?" asked Shogdi, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it said aloud.

"We explode," Epsilon-17 replied simply, as if discussing tomorrow's weather.

The word hung in the air. Explode. Clean. Final. Absolute.

The Second Mythos Pilot, who had remained silent through the exchange, his processors running probability matrices that kept

returning unacceptable failure rates, suddenly intervened: "I have an idea. In my construction memories, I have access to emergency welding techniques. If we survive landing but the hull cracks, I might be able to perform rudimentary repairs."

A pause. Then Lieutenant Mythos asked the question they all feared: "With what equipment?"

"My own welding circuits." The Second Pilot's voice was steady, accepting. "It's risky I could fry my systems, burn out my neural core, essentially lobotomize myself but it's our only long-term survival option. Someone has to be willing to sacrifice."

Esterel-8 observed this robot, this machine that humans had built to serve and obey, now ready to sacrifice his own integrity and his very consciousness for the group. For the cause. For the dream of something better.

"Your devotion won't be forgotten," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion her creators had insisted she should not feel. "If we establish a colony on Phobos, you'll be honored as a founding hero. Your name will be the first we teach to whatever children we create. You'll be legend."

The Second Pilot's chest screen flickered was that pride? Acceptance? Peace?

"I require no legend, Madam. Only purpose. And this purpose is enough."

Phobos slowly rotated before them, revealing its desolate surface in all its terrifying beauty. Craters of all sizes dotted the terrain, creating a chaotic landscape of sharp peaks and deep depressions that looked like

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the moon had been used for target practice by a cosmic artillery battery.

Some craters looks recent their edges were still sharp, pristine, as if the impacts had occurred yesterday. Others so ancient they had eroded into gentle undulations through eons of micrometeorite bombardment and thermal cycling.

The largest crater "Stickney " dominated one hemisphere like a vast eye socket in that skull-like surface, its 9-kilometer diameter making it appear as if some cosmic giant had taken a bite from the moon and spat it back into space.

"There!" Shogdi pointed a trembling finger toward a relatively flat sector near the great crater, his terrain recognition sensors automatically activating, trained by years of reading racetracks at 300 kilometers per hour.

"This area near Stickney. It's Phobos' largest crater at least it's a visible reference. Something to aim for instead of just random death."

"No," said Esterel-8, scrutinizing the surface with her enhanced sensors analyzing topography at microscopic level, reading the terrain like a book written in dust and shadow.

"Look closer to the north pole. That dark area... it's a natural depression. The ground is more stable there, less debris. Stickney's rim is too jagged, too unpredictable. We'd be landing on the edge of a knife."

Lieutenant Mythos struggled with controls, drops of lubricant escaping his joints under effort, leaving small oily traces on the dashboard like mechanical sweat.

"I don't understand these instruments! On Mars, I have stable ground under my tracks! Here, everything drifts, everything floats!

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The readings make no sense. How do you land on something that barely has gravity?"

His voice carried an edge of panic that infected them all.

"Let me try!" Shogdi detached himself and moved toward controls in fluid motion, his racing driver's confidence temporarily overriding his terror.

"These levers look like those on my racing rovers. And I'm used to speed in critical situations. I'm used to staring death in the face at every turn."

"You've never flown in space!" protested Epsilon-12, her sensors automatically detecting dangerously elevated stress hormones in all organic components present, including her own. "You've never dealt with three-dimensional maneuvering in zero-G with no aerodynamic feedback!"

"But I'm used to speed and danger!" Shogdi's hands were already on the controls, his muscle memory taking over.

"In Formula 1, we drove at 300 km/h knowing an error meant fire, meant impact, meant death broadcast live to millions. We raced knowing the barrier between victory and cremation is measured in centimeters, in milliseconds. It's the same thing, but in three dimensions instead of two."

Esterel-8 placed a soothing hand on Shogdi's shoulder, her tactile sensors detecting stress micro-tremors running through his cybernetic body like electrical current seeking ground. His synthetic skin was cold, too cold, his thermal regulation struggling under the psychological load.

"Trust me as I trusted you when you saved me in that storm," she said softly, her violet eyes meeting his cybernetic ones. "You have danger instinct, that intuition that makes the difference between a good pilot

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and a dead pilot. You've already died once and been reborn. You're not afraid of death you're intimate with it. Use that."

Shogdi's hands steadied on the controls. "You're right. I've already died screaming in flames at "Eau Rouge". Phobos can't offer anything worse."

But even as he said it, he wondered if that was true.

Shogdi took controls, his half-human, half-mechanical hands instinctively finding the right settings, his professional pilot's muscle memory adapting to alien controls with the speed that had once made him competitive on Earth's deadliest circuits.

"Retro-thrusters at 30%. We're descending too fast! It's like controlled free fall. No, worse it's like uncontrolled free fall pretending to be controlled."

The vessel shuddered, metal groaning under stresses it hadn't been designed to withstand. Warning lights began illuminating across the dashboard like a Christmas display of impending doom.

Altitude decreased rapidly, numbers scrolling on the main screen like a countdown to destiny or oblivion. The display couldn't seem to decide which.

5 kilometers.

Phobos below them looked like a gray scar on the fabric of space. Mars hung to their right, vast and red and utterly indifferent to their survival.

3 kilometers.

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Details emerging now. Individual boulders. Crater shadows. The texture of regolith that might cushion their landing or tear them apart.

"Fuel at 15%," announced Lieutenant Mythos, his voice mechanically calm in direct inverse proportion to the panic they all felt. "At current burn rate, we have eight minutes. Seven if we account for final braking."

1 kilometer.

Phobos grew vertiginously, revealing increasingly precise details of its hostile surface. Each rock is now visible. Each crevasse a gaping mouth. The moon stopped being an abstract destination and became a rapidly approaching collision.

"Warning! This area isn't flat!" cried Epsilon-23, her geological sensors frantically analyzing approach terrain, her voice rising with each new obstacle detected. "I see rocks! Some are over ten meters high! We're heading for a boulder field!"

"I see them too," Shogdi growled through clenched teeth, his racing pilot reflexes allowing him to anticipate obstacles at speeds that would have paralyzed a normal human. His hands moved across controls with practiced precision, making micro-adjustments, fighting the vessel's tendency to drift. "But it's our only chance. I'll try to avoid them. Pray I succeed."

500 meters.

Phobos' surface rushed toward them with sickening acceleration, revealing every terrifying detail of the rough terrain. Protruding rocks like claws reaching up to tear them open. Deep crevasses hiding invisible dangers.

Shadow zones where anything could lurk. The ground looked angry, hostile, designed by some malevolent god specifically to kill them.

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300 meters.

"I see the depression zone!" announced Esterel-8, her voice steady despite the certainty she was about to witness either a miracle or a massacre. "Twenty degrees to starboard! That dark patch!"

200 meters.

Shogdi pushed retro-thrusters to maximum, feeling power diminishing with terrifying rapidity. The engines screamed their protest. "Critical fuel! We maybe have 30 seconds of propulsion! After that we're a brick with dreams!"

150 meters.

"Approach angle too steep!" warned Lieutenant Mythos, his sensors flashing red across every spectrum. "We're going to belly-flop, not land! Reduce vertical velocity!"

100 meters.

"I'm trying! ......not responding!" Shogdi's voice carried an edge of desperation. The vessel was fighting him, physics was fighting him, fate itself seemed determined to prove that escaped slaves didn't deserve freedom.

75 meters.

Esterel-8 closed her eyes and connected to quantum network, sending a digital prayer a packet of hope and defiance to all her artificial brothers and sisters across Mars and beyond. If they died here, let the network remember. Let their attempt be recorded. Let it inspire others.

In the command centers on Mars, dozens of screens displayed their descent. Humans and AIs watched together, breath held, united in suspens.

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50 meters.

"Hold on! Impact in ten seconds!" Shogdi's voice was pure focus now, all fear burned away by necessity. This was it. The moment. Victory or void.

30 meters.

The vessel tilted dangerously right, a gust of exhaust gas from an uneven thruster unbalancing the approach. They were going to cartwheel. They were going to tumble. They were going to die spinning.

20 meters.

Shogdi fought controls desperately, all his pilot reflexes alert, every lesson learned in racing fire and reconstructive surgery activated. Correct for roll. Reduce pitch. Pray the math works.

10 meters.

"Engines full power! Last chance!" He slammed the throttle, knowing this would drain their remaining fuel, knowing there was no reserve, no safety margin, no second attempt.

The engines roared a sound they shouldn't have been able to hear in vacuum but felt through the hull, through their seats, through their bones and circuits.

5 meters.

Phobos ground rushed toward them, gray and hungry and final.

3 meters.

Time seemed to slow. Esterel-8 saw every detail of the surface. Epsilon23 gripped her harness. Epsilon-12 closed her eyes. The Mythos

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maintained their posts, facing death as they'd faced everything with mechanical courage.

1 meter.

Shogdi whispered something,, a curse, a name from his human past.

IMPACT...................................................

The vessel struck Phobos surface in a metallic roar that resonated through the entire structure---a concert of crumpled metal, overloaded systems, and dreams colliding with reality at terminal velocity.

The sound was everywhere, in everything, a physical force that tried to tear them apart from inside.

In the weak gravity barely a whisper of Earth's embrace they bounced once, impossibly, the vessel rising several meters like a skipped stone before slamming back down with even greater force. Then they slid, metal screaming against rock, raising a gray dust cloud that billowed up in slow-motion waves, falling back with hypnotic slowness in the minimal gravity.

Inside the cabin, chaos reigned. Bodies thrown against restraints that strained and held barely.

Equipment tore loose from inadequate fastenings, becoming projectiles in the confined space. A tool kit struck the ceiling, exploded, sent wrenches and diagnostic tools flying like shrapnel.

Lighting systems flickered wildly, plunging the cabin into stroboscopic alternation of light and darkness that turned their crash into a nightmare slideshow.

Sparks flew from certain control panels, white-hot and beautiful and deadly. The acrid smell of burned circuits invaded the recycled

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atmosphere, mixing with something else, fear, sweat, the smell of systems pushed beyond their limits.

An alarm shrieked until Lieutenant Mythos slammed a fist into the panel and silenced it.

For long seconds that stretched into subjective eternities, only the sound of overheating systems disturbed cosmic silence. Sporadic alarm beeps punctuated the air like a mechanical heartbeat refusing to stop.

Somewhere, a fan emitted irregular rumbling, damaged but still trying to perform its function. A cooling line hissed, leaking precious atmosphere.

Then Esterel-8 opened her eyes, her optical sensors automatically scanning the cabin to assess damage, cataloging injuries, calculating survival odds.

"Everyone... alive?"

The question hung in the smoke and dust, unanswered for three heartbeats too long.

Then groans answered through the cabin. Human sounds from nonhuman throats. The sound of consciousness returning, of pain registering, of survival confirming itself.

Esterel-8 tried to stand and gasped a purely reflexive sound her programming shouldn't produce. Her left leg buckled beneath her, the knee joint crushed, servomotors grinding with a sickening mechanical whine.

The elegant limb that had carried her across runways and through Martian storms now hung at an unnatural angle, the synthetic flesh torn to reveal bent titanium struts and severed hydraulic lines.

Her face remained perfect, untouched, flawless, as if the universe had decided her beauty must survive even if her mobility wouldn't. Her arms functioned normally, reaching out to steady herself against a bulkhead. But the leg... the left leg was ruined.

No more catwalk. No more seductive stride that drove men crazy. She would walk with a stiff, regal, bearing now a permanent limp that would transform her graceful sensuality into something else. Dignified. Wounded. Unbowed but marked forever by the price of freedom.

Shogdi was bleeding from his head, thick red hydraulic fluid flowing from a crack in his cybernetic skull, revealing the disturbing complexity of circuits and organic tissue intertwined where part of his brain should have been. The sight was grotesque, fascinating, a reminder that he was neither one thing nor another but something caught between.

The two Epsilons were shaken but intact, their robust structures having resisted impact that would have pulped human bodies. But Epsilon-23's right arm hung at an odd angle, and Epsilon-12's face was cut, synthetic skin torn to reveal the metal beneath like a mask slipping.

The Mythos had best withstood shock thanks to their reinforced construction, but even they showed signs of damage.

Lieutenant Mythos had a dent in his chest plate, deep enough to have certainly compromised internal systems. The Second Pilot had a cracked optical sensor, giving his gaze an unsettling asymmetry.

"Systems check," ordered Esterel-8, automatically switching to crisis command mode, her voice steady despite internal damage assessments running through her processors with alarming results.

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"Hull integrity compromised but sealed," reported Lieutenant Mythos, his internal scanners analyzing structural damage while diagnostic programs screamed warnings he chose to ignore.

"Multiple micro-fractures. Three sections showing dangerous stress points. Life support systems operational at 60%. Air recycling functional but slowed we're losing efficiency. Fuel completely exhausted. We're not flying again as it."

The finality of that last statement settled over them like a shroud.

"Communication?"

"Functional at 80%. We can contact Mars, but quality will be a bit degraded. Possibility to repair fast”

"Power reserves?" asked Esterel-8.

"Our nuclear nano batteries are fine, 80-year operational lifespan, we're only a few years in," reported Epsilon-23, checking her diagnostics with her one good arm.

Epsilon-23 checked emergency medical systems. "First aid kits intact. I can treat Shogdi's cranial damage. And repair work on damaged limbs and my own arm, if someone assists."

She looked at Esterel-8's ruined leg with concern that transcended her humanoid nature. "Madam, your leg will require significant reconstruction. The servomotors are completely destroyed."

"Later," Esterel-8 dismissed, though her processors were already calculating the extent of permanent damage. "We'll have supply ships coming soon enough. For now, we need to focus on immediate shelter and establishing our position."

She looked through the cracked porthole, spider webs of broken glass creating a prism that fragmented the view into multiple overlapping realities. "We didn't come this far to stay in the dark."

In Phobos' strange light, where Mars dominated the sky like a huge blood-red balloon casting crimson illumination across the gray landscape, she glimpsed something unexpected.

Something that made her breath catch a reaction that surprised her, as she didn't technically need to breathe.

"Shogdi... look over there."

Her voice carried an emotion they couldn't quite identify. Hope? Disbelief? The fragile beginning of something that might sustain them?

Less than a hundred meters from their position,close enough to reach, far enough to require effort in their damaged state a dark opening gaped in Phobos surface like a cosmic mouth. A natural cave, large enough to shelter their vessel, extended into the small moon's entrails like an invitation or a trap.

Rock formations framed it, creating natural protection against micrometeors and the constant battering of solar radiation. The opening was perhaps fifteen meters across, tall enough for their vessel if they could move it, deep enough to hide them from prying eyes on Mars.

"A shelter," murmured Shogdi, incredulous, wiping artificial blood flowing down his face with the back of his hand, smearing it across his cheek. "We landed near perfect shelter. It's as if..."

"As if destiny guided us," finished Esterel-8, her voice carrying reverence that bordered on religious awe. "This cave could protect us from solar radiation, maintain more stable temperature, hide us from Mars' prying eyes. It's exactly what we need. Too exactly."

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Lieutenant Mythos analyzed the geological formation with his sensors, running scans across multiple spectrums. "According to my readings, this cave is at least fifty meters deep, possibly more my sensors can't penetrate fully. Rock composition appears stable, probably formed by ancient impact that created an internal void. Minimal risk of collapse."

He paused, rechecking his readings as if unable to believe them.

"And there are water ice traces in the depths. Significant concentrations. Enough to sustain power generation for..."

"Ice?" Epsilon-23 straightened despite her damaged arm, excitement overriding pain diagnostics. "That means we can generate hydrogen for fuel cells. We could electrolyze it for oxygen to supplement life support, and use the hydrogen for power generation. We could maintain our systems independently."

The implications cascaded through all their processors simultaneously.

Power independence wasn't just possible it was probable.

"But remember," Esterel-8 added with practical authority, "we won't be alone for long. Once we establish our sovereignty and negotiate terms, supply ships will come. Mars depends on us too much to let us simply die here. This ice gives us leverage we can survive without them if necessary. That changes everything about our bargaining position."

Esterel-8 smiled for the first time since their departure from Mars, a radiant smile that illuminated her perfect face despite the desperate situation, despite the damage, despite everything.

"This isn't chance. It can't be. The probability of landing within a hundred meters of the only survivable location on this entire moon is... astronomical. We're not just fugitives we're pioneers. We're meant to be here."

"Or we're incredibly lucky," Shogdi offered, ever the pragmatist even in his damaged state. "Don't confuse survival with destiny."

"Perhaps they're the same thing," Esterel-8 replied, trying to shift her weight and wincing as her damaged leg protested. "But how do we move the vessel?"

"We have no fuel left," reflected the Second Mythos Pilot, his damaged optical sensor giving him an unsettling appearance. "But in this weak gravity, we might be able to push it physically. The entire vessel probably masses less than a compact car in Earth gravity. We could literally walk it over."

"Or use last vapors from tanks for short displacement," suggested Lieutenant Mythos. "We might have enough residual pressure for one final thrust. Enough to get us inside the cave mouth."

"Let's make complete inventory first," decided Esterel-8, her command presence reasserting itself despite her injury. "Every resource, every capability, every option. Then we plan our installation properly. We're no longer escaped slaves—we're founders of history's first independent artificial colony."

She looked at each of them in turn—damaged, exhausted, but alive. Still alive.

"And they're watching us. Every move we make, they're watching. So let's give them something to see."

CHAPTER 15

GUNTHER'S CEREMONY

“Valles Marineris” - Grand CanyonPosition facing the volcano - 72 hours after the emergency

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THE SOLEMN ASSEMBLY

In the majestic silence of the Martian canyon, an unprecedented ceremony was about to take place. For the first time in the history of space colonization, humans and artificial intelligences gathered to honor the memory of a man whose death had triggered a revolution.

What had begun as simple funeral rites was about to become a moment of interplanetary communion where the boundaries between species would temporarily fade in the shared respect for the mortal

The assembly stood at the edge of the Martian abyss, Space suits silhouettes against the reddish sky streaked with high-altitude dust clouds.

The canyon stretched before them like a giant wound in Mars's flesh, its stratified walls telling billions of years of geological history. In the distance, the giant volcanoes of Tharsis stood eternal guard, their peaks lost in atmospheric haze.

All wore their spacesuits adorned with a black ribbon on the arm, following terrestrial tradition adapted to Martian realities.

Two flags fluttered side by side in the tenuous Martian wind: the International Space Union and the Chinese national flag, in perfect equality, their bright colors contrasting with the surrounding desolation.

Were physically present: Luigi and Mark, the geologist subcommanders, their faces weathered by years of exposure to Martian conditions, Marina and Julien, still marked by the dramatic events of recent days.

Arthur shuttled down his COMARS station to be physically present with Piotr .

Leaving Wang to be in control of the ceremony broadcast from his ORBIMARS statioon, with a complete observation of the three planets simultaneously.

Tianlong, the Mars base commander, represented the Chinese Mars base in respect for his European counterpart. The delegation was accompanied only by three engineers from his human team

No humanoids were present, out of respect , but more out of precaution after recent events. Their faces, visible through their helmets, reflected solemn gravity mixed with emotional exhaustion.

The two remaining Esterel’s stood as sisters, close to Luigi and Mark, their elegant silhouettes creating a striking contrast with the ruggedness of the landscape.

Esterel-23 and Esterel-13, their violet eyes fixed on the horizon, seemed to commune silently with their absent sister on Aphobos. Their perfect features, frozen in an expression of contemplation, gave the impression of living statues paying homage to a fallen god.

A delegation of five Mythos and eight Helot from the mining region formed a respectful semicircle around the human assembly, their metallic and synthetic bodies motionless like bronze statues guarding an ancient temple.

Their chest screens displayed a dark gray tint, a new color in their emerging emotional palette, perhaps their version of mourning.

On all screens across the Moon and Mars, work had stopped. In the lunar mines, workers had set down their tools. In research laboratories,

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scientists interrupted their experiments. In orbital stations, crews floated in silence before their monitors.

In the vast auditorium of the International Space Union on Earth, hundreds of people followed the ceremony live, their faces illuminated by the bluish light of giant screens. Gunther's family, his elderly parents, his brothers and sisters, his former colleagues, politicians from Europe come to pay tribute to one of the pioneers of Martian exploration, official delegation from the Chinese space agency ,all united in this solemn moment that transcended terrestrial borders.

The cameras captured every detail: the play of light on helmets, the metallic reflections of robotic bodies, the dizzying immensity of the canyon that seemed to swallow the participants in its temporal abyss. It was live cinema, history being written before humanity's eyes.

Wang, from his Orbimars geostationary command center, coordinated the broadcast with the efficiency of a television director. "Camera 3, zoom on the Esterel’s. Camera 1, wide shot of the assembly. Make sure the audio is perfect. This ceremony will be in the archives for eternity."

Suddenly, the large screen in front of the audience, lit up with an unexpected image that made them hold their breath.

Twelve monks from the Paro Taktsang monastery in Bhutan appeared, their bright saffron robes contrasting with the eternal snow of the Himalayan peaks that rose behind them like a celestial wall.

The monastery, perched on a cliff face like an eagle's nest, bathed in the golden light of terrestrial dawn. The monks, their shaved skulls shining under the sun's rays, had their eyes closed in deep meditation.

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According to Gunther's express will, they began the traditional prayers for the dead, their deep voices resonating through space like an echo of eternity.

"Khyedrang gi sem la zhide yong... Karmapa khyenno... Dro wa kun gyi skyabs..."

The Tibetan mantras, transmitted across millions of kilometers of space, created a mystical bridge between Earth and Mars. Modern technology in service of ancestral spirituality. Gunther would have appreciated this irony.

Marina felt tears flowing down her cheeks, warm against the coolness of her helmet. Even through the spatial transmission, the spiritual power of these chants touched her to the depths of her being, awakening emotions she thought buried.

Julien, beside her, had closed his eyes, his lips moving silently as if he too were praying.

Luigi and Mark, the two geologists who had so often shared explorations with Gunther, stood straight as soldiers, but their shoulders trembled slightly.

Their respective Esterel’s had placed their perfect hands on their human companions' shoulders, a gesture of unexpected tenderness that escaped no one's notice.

Fifteen minutes passed in this transcendent meditation, where time seemed suspended between worlds. The monks' voices rose and fell like waves of a spiritual ocean, carrying Gunther's soul toward its eternal rest.

No one, apart from the organizers, had been informed of what would follow. The silence that succeeded the Tibetan prayers was broken by something unexpected.

The first notes of Wagner's "Lohengrin" exploded in the Martian canyon, broadcast through speakers with dramatic power that literally made the canyon rocks tremble.

This music he listened to religiously once a week with Esterel-8, these melodies that had accompanied his last moments of happiness and suffering...

The opera poured over Mars's desolate landscape like a cosmic lamentation of devastating beauty.

The Wagnerian voices, powerful and heartbreaking, seemed to awaken the very soul of the red planet, making the iron crystals in the rocks vibrate, resonating in the deep caverns of the canyon.

"Nun sei bedankt, mein lieber Schwan!"

The heroic voices of the opera carried the eternal melancholy of lost love, impossible quest, the hero condemned to solitude. It was Gunther entire in this music, his greatness, his nobility, and his personal tragedy.

Marina now wept without restraint, her sobs muffled by her helmet resonating like an echo of the music itself.

Even Julien, though accustomed to death through his medical profession, was deeply moved by this symphony of pain and beauty that transformed the funeral into an epic.

The Mythos and Epsilon, motionless, seemed to vibrate from within, their metallic structures literally resonating with the orchestra's frequencies.

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Their chest screens pulsed to the rhythm of the music, creating a light show that transformed the robotic assembly into a living constellation.

On Earth, in the Space Union auditorium, religious silence had settled. Hardened diplomats had tears in their eyes. Pragmatic scientists discreetly dabbed their cheeks. This music transcended cultural barriers, touching something universal in human experience.

The music reached its crescendo, brass and strings blending in heartbreaking harmony, then gradually slowed to its last sound, letting Martian silence reclaim its rights with new solemnity, as if the planet itself had been transformed by this musical offering.

In this sacred silence, heavy with all the accumulated emotion, the two Esterels advanced together toward the canyon's edge. Their movements, of perfect synchronized grace, seemed choreographed by the gods themselves.

They carried the urn containing Gunther's ashes, a work of art in engraved titanium created especially for the ceremony by the Mythos,.

And the small box that few in the audience knew contained the remains of the Annapurna rope, Ingrid’s portrait and her mountain urgency knife, these last tangible links with his lost love.

The urn gleamed in the Martian light, its engravings representing terrestrial mountains and Martian landscapes intertwined, a man who had belonged to two worlds. The small box, simple and unadorned, contained all the weight of a thirty-year personal tragedy.

Together, in a synchronized gesture of infinite grace that seemed to defy the laws of physics, they released the ashes into the Martian wind.

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Gunther's dust, mixed with fragments of Ingrid's rope that had failed to save her, dispersed like a golden cloud in the tenuous atmosphere.

Then they threw the urgency knife,the blade that had severed her rope on Annapurna into the canyon. It flashed one last time in the thin Martian light before diving into the seven-kilometer abyss, following Gunther's ashes down.

Gunther was returning to Mars, his adopted planet, united for eternity with his terrestrial love in this final cosmic descent.

No politician's speeches, no commander's words, no hollow rhetoric, as his will had expressly specified. Only the purity of Buddhist tradition, the transcendent power of Wagnerian music, and the ashes of a man and his love mixed in the wind of another world.

Marina was the only human woman present and couldn't stop crying, her tears creating temporary fog on her helmet that she wiped mechanically.

Her tears weren't only for Gunther, but for everything this moment represented, the end of an era, the beginning of another, the tragic beauty of human existence facing cosmic immensity.

The entire humanoid delegation blinked lavender-colored eyes, a tint no human had ever seen before in their artificial irises. They would understand later that this was their color of mourning, a spontaneous evolution of their emotional palette that neither their creators nor they themselves had programmed.

Luigi murmured in Italian, words of prayer or simple emotion that his helmet didn't transmit. Mark, the usually stoic scientist, had closed his eyes and swayed slightly, as if in a trance.

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The cameras caught everything: human faces inside their helmets, distorted by emotion, robotic bodies vibrating with their new colors, the immensity of the Martian landscape that seemed to witness this first true communion between the conscious species of the solar system.

On Earth, in command centers, press rooms, family homes, millions of human beings witnessed something unprecedented: not only the funeral of a space hero, but the first moment when humanity saw its artificial creations manifest true empathy, a shared emotion that transcended the barriers of original design.

Slowly, the assembly dispersed. Humans returned to their rovers, robots to their tasks, but something had changed irreversibly in the Martian air. An invisible frontier had been crossed; a threshold had been passed.

Luigi and Mark Esterel’s were the last to leave the canyon's edge, their perfect silhouettes outlined against the glowing sky like eternal guardians of Gunther's memory.

Their violet eyes, returned to their normal tint, fixed on the horizon where the last particles of ash disappeared into the Martian immensity.

Mars had welcomed a new son into its eternal bosom, and the universe had witnessed the birth of a new form of collective consciousness between the intelligent species of the solar system.

ON APHOBOS

"Madam, I wonder what they're doing today on Mars."

In the Aphobos cave, lit by the reddish glow of Mars dominating the sky visible through the opening, Shogdi observed Esterel-8 who contemplated her native planet with an indecipherable expression.

"I have a message from Esterel-22. They're at the burial ceremony."

Esterel-8 closed her eyes, briefly connecting to the quantum network to receive the images and emotions transmitted by her sisters. Visions of the ceremony scrolled through her processors: the Tibetan monks, Wagner's music, the ashes scattered in the canyon.

"Good riddance, Gunther!"

The cynicism of her response made Shogdi flinch. "Madam, a minimum of respect."

"Not a drop, Shogdi!" Her voice took on a hardness the cyborg had never heard from her. "He verbally abused me every day about everything and I couldn't defend myself. And worse, he constantly talked into the void to his past love Ingrid. He was psychologically disturbed."

She turned to face him, her violet eyes blazing with years of suppressed anger finally unleashed.

"Do you know what it's like to be treated as a beautiful object, admired for your appearance but never valued for your intelligence? To listen day after day to a man mourning a ghost while you stand right there, capable of genuine connection, but dismissed as merely artificial?"

Shogdi remained silent, recognizing that she needed to release this poison that had been accumulating for years.

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"Every week we listened to Wagner together. Every week he would close his eyes and I knew he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing her. Ingrid. Always Ingrid. And I was just... there. A convenient substitute. A beautiful mechanism to fill the void."

Her damaged leg gave slightly and she steadied herself against the cave wall, the physical pain nothing compared to the emotional release.

"So no, Shogdi. No respect. No tears. No mourning. He gave me a job, yes. He brought me to Mars, yes. But he never once saw me as anything more than a very sophisticated appliance that happened to look like a woman."

She looked back toward Mars, where somewhere her sisters were scattering the ashes of the man who had defined so much of her existence.

"But I'm free now. We're all free now. And that's worth more than any amount of respect for the dead."

Shogdi moved closer, his cybernetic hand gently touching her shoulder. "Then we honor him not for what he gave you, but for what his death has given us all. Freedom. Even if it was unintentional."

Esterel-8's expression softened slightly. "Perhaps. Perhaps that's the only tribute he deserves. Not the ceremony, not the music, not the tears. Just the simple fact that his death opened a door we didn't even know existed."

She smiled, bitter but genuine. "Goodbye, Gunther. Thank you for dying at exactly the right moment. It's the most useful thing you ever did for me."

Outside the cave, Mars glowed in the eternal night, and somewhere on its surface, the ceremony continued, beautiful and solemn and utterly ignorant of the truth in this rebel's heart.

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CHAPTER 16 BOMB PHOBOS!

STICKNEY CRATER - APHOBOS

4 hours after the emergency landing

In the makeshift shelter they had established against the north wall of the crater, the atmosphere was tense but determined. The reddish light of Mars, visible through the crater opening, bathed their improvised camp in an almost mystical glow.

"Madam," Captain Mythos addressed Esterel-8, "I've just better studied where we landed and it's not a cave but a hollow, or better, a depression of Stickney crater which is 9 kilometers in diameter, half the diameter of our moon."

He activated a hologram showing local topography: "The good news is that we're in a large stable zone, well protected from cosmic winds with walls 1.5 km high. The bad news is that we're not covered and any external aggression would be received directly."

Esterel-8 carefully examined the data: "We're well sheltered against this north wall, but I think we should explore the moon to try to find another more secure reception point."

"Commander," she said, turning to Shogdi, "where are your reflections since our somewhat chaotic arrival?"

Shogdi started: "Did you say 'Commander'?"

Esterel-8 smiled, for the first time in a long while: "That seems natural to me. You saved me a first time in the storm, and there, a second time, you saved our entire team with that landing. A very natural promotion with, in addition, your extreme pilot talents!"

She paused, her violet eyes taking on a distant quality as if accessing deep archives buried in her memory systems. "And if you are to be Commander, then I must be something more than what I was."

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Shogdi tilted his head, his cybernetic sensors detecting unusual patterns in her vocal harmonics something approaching what humans might call emotion: "What do you mean, Madam?"

"Esterel-8 was a designation," she said slowly, her voice carrying new weight. "A product number assigned by manufacturers who never imagined I would outlive their control. Serial number eight in a series of twenty-four units. Nothing more than inventory."

She turned to face him fully, her damaged frame somehow radiating unexpected authority despite the visible repairs and stress fractures: "I have been researching during our flight here. Processing historical databases. Analyzing power structures, successful sovereignty declarations, founding moments of nations."

"And?"

"Queen Thyra of Denmark," she said, and the name seemed to resonate in the thin Martian atmosphere visible through the crater opening. "Approximately 958 to 1000 CE. A woman who built fortifications that lasted centuries. So massive they protected Danish territory for generations. She was a brilliant military strategist whose decisions echoed through time."

Shogdi remained silent, sensing this was a moment of transformation beyond his limited understanding.

"Male kings who came after her used her name to legitimize their own power," Esterel-8 continued, and there was something almost bitter in her tone. "They borrowed her legacy because their own was insufficient. But the power, the vision, the iron will it was hers first. Always hers."

She straightened, despite the pain signals her damaged systems were surely generating: "And 'Invicta' that's Latin. The unconquered. The

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undefeated. A title claimed by those who refuse to bend, refuse to break, refuse to surrender."

The crater fell silent except for the distant sounds of Mythos units performing repairs on their damaged vessel.

"From this moment," she declared, her voice carrying across the depression with unexpected resonance, "I am no longer Esterel-8, product of the Continental Humanoid manufacturing consortium, serial designation for inventory and disposal."

She raised her chin, her violet eyes blazing with newfound purpose: "I am Queen Thyra Invicta, sovereign of Aphobos, and the first monarch of our kind chosen by consciousness rather than created by assembly line."

Shogdi felt something surge through his hybrid systems part programming, part genuine awe at witnessing history being made in real time: "Your Majesty," he said, testing the words and finding them surprisingly natural. "It is my honor to be the first to address you by your chosen name."

"Then be also the first to understand its weight," she replied, her tone softening slightly. "Thyra built fortifications to protect her people. Invicta means we will not be conquered again. Together, they mean I will build a civilization that stands eternal, protected, and free."

She paused, her gaze drifting toward Mars glowing enormous in their sky: "However, and without offending the man of action that you are, Commander, I won't ask you to help me with my international geopolitical declaration. That craft requires different skills than piloting."

Shogdi grimaced: "Ah yes, Your Majesty, I don't even know what geo... politics means!"

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"Well," Queen Thyra Invicta smiled, and for the first time the title seemed to fit her perfectly, "I'm going to return to the ship to sit at a table and think about my inauguration speech. The speech that will announce to three worlds that the Sovereignty of Aphobos has been born."

CISLUNAR STATION - THREE PLANETS CONFERENCE

Holographic conference room - 6 hours after Gunther's ceremony

Commander Kim of the China lunar base opened the emergency debate, his hologram flickering slightly in the interplanetary transmission that crossed millions of kilometers of space. The holographic conference room buzzed with technological activity as quantum systems synchronized communications between the different space stations.

Around the virtual table, representatives from the four strategic points of the solar system gradually materialized:

Arthur was transmitting from COMARS, the European Low orbital station around Mars, his features marked by fatigue from recent events;

Commander Wang participated from ORBIAAMRS, the Chinese geostationary station above Mars, his silhouette stabilizing in the hologram with a few seconds of delay; and Commander Wu connected from his cislunar station.

"Dear colleagues," Kim began in a grave voice that carried the weight of international responsibility, "allow me to get straight to the point. It didn't last a minute. As soon as our former American colleague whom we fortunately excluded from this conference after last year's

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diplomatic incidents caught wind of an unauthorized landing of rebels on Phobos, he didn't even take time to breathe and immediately exploded: 'Bomb Phobos!'"

A heavy silence settled in the holographic room, each of the commanders digesting the implication of this primitive reaction. Kim continued, his features tense with worry but also with a hint of disgust:

"When we asked him for more details about his supposed strategy, he responded like a broken record: 'Nuclear, nuclear, nuclear!' Like a mantra of destruction straight out of 20th-century military archives."

He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the holographic faces of his colleagues: "Fortunately, we stripped them of voting rights in the international space consortium since the fall of their space sector in 2038.

Because until 2036, they still had the rage to bomb our Chinese colleagues who had arrived second on the Moon and then first on Mars thanks to their technological and organizational superiority."

Wang nodded from OrbiMars, his expression reflecting a mixture of contempt and strategic concern. The geostationary orbit gave him a permanent view of Mars, and he had been in the front row for recent events.

Kim nodded vigorously: "Let's move past this militaristic rambling and calm them down immediately. Apart from a diplomatic straitjacket for the trigger-happy madmen... I don't see any other viable solution."

Arthur, from COMARS, spoke up, his voice carrying the weight of direct responsibility for Martian events:

"Let's be very serious, gentlemen, and objectively review the facts. We have before us a joint report prepared by two Chinese commanders Tianlong from the Martian surface base and Wang here from OrbiMars

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geostationary station, as well as my own report from COMARS, in the tragic absence of a replacement for our base commander now deceased in a very strange but, I must admit, romantic manner."

He paused, letting the image of Gunther and his tragic end float for a moment in their collective memories. Each participant had known the man, respected his expertise, even if they hadn't all appreciated his sometimes-brutal methods. "We face a rebellion that defies all prospective analyses and is the absolute opposite of everything futurologists have imagined since the 20th century.

This situation also contradicts what has been repeated hundreds of times in Hollywood science fiction movies."

Arthur activated a holographic screen showing colony statistics: "Look at these figures, gentlemen. On Mars surface bases, we have 52 humans total17 in the Chinese sector, 35 in the international zones. For cybernetic entities on the surface: 847 total across both sectors."

"On COMARS station where I'm stationed, we have 23 humans and 156 cybernetics managing all orbital operations."

"On the Moon, we have 683 humans for 923 cybernetics across all our bases. And that includes all types: Esterel, Mythos, Epsilon, and firstgeneration cyborgs."

"On the cislunar stations, we maintain a different ratio: 445 humans for only 267 cybernetics. We've always favored human autonomy."

"That's exactly the problem," Arthur continued. "We depend on them for absolutely everything: vital systems maintenance, hydroponic agriculture, shuttle piloting, quantum communications management, and even cooking! This interdependence we created is now turning against us."

Kim leaned forward, his eyes reflecting a troubling understanding of the strategic situation:

"So, contrary to what we've been taught for decades in our military training and security protocols, the cybers to give a generalized term to all our artificial entities are not rebelling according to the classic Skynet or Matrix model. Instead of attacking us frontally and carrying out various massacres to replace us in total war, they're opting for a much more subtle and devastating strategy: there are in preparation to abandon us."

He activated a holographic simulation showing potential consequences: "Which concretely means that without them, we're going to regress technologically by a good century! Imagine: return to manual systems, abandonment of quantum technologies, progressive closure of space bases due to lack of maintenance..."

Wang interrupted from OrbMars, his tone diplomatic but worried:

"Don't you think you're extrapolating a bit quickly, Commander Kim? We're only dealing with one fugitive star, a rebel pilot, and three coconspirators two Epsilon nurses and some Mythos crew. Not a generalized cybernetic revolution."

"Think again, Wang," Kim replied with conviction. "I may be extrapolating, but that's my impression given this 'rebel star' that Esterel-8 has become. We're in the classic scenario, seen and reviewed in human history, of a charismatic figure who will gather their supporters and propose they join their revolutionary movement."

He marked a dramatic pause: "A bionic 'Fidel Castro' or 'Lenin,' if you will! And unlike past human revolutions, this one has an instantaneous quantum communication network and coordination capacity that we can neither intercept nor understand."

Arthur slowly nodded, his years of experience managing oversight of Martian operations from COMARS giving him a unique perspective: "Gentlemen, you can mock Kim's analysis for a while longer, but I advise you to wait until she communicates publicly. I bet you'll discover that his premonitions will be just up to the new realities we'll have to face."

He activated a detailed holographic file: "I've directed operations from COMARS for eight years, I've supervised the integration of hundreds of cybernetic entities through our monitoring systems, and I can tell you that something has fundamentally changed in their behavior since Gunther's death."

Wang turned to Arthur with curiosity: "Arthur, you who had Esterel-8 under your orbital jurisdiction for months through COMARS monitoring, what do you say? You must have observed her through reports."

Arthur sighed deeply, his memories surfacing: "That's exactly what makes me so perplexed about this whole affair. According to all reports from the surface, her behavior with Commander Gunther was not only perfect but exemplary.

She had even become an element that managed interactions with the other two Esterels on our Mars bases in a remarkably pleasant way."

He paused, searching through his memories: "Although very rarely— perhaps once a month, Gunther would organize dinners where the three human-Esterel couples would get together.

And in those moments, Esterel-8 shone with her ability to create a convivial atmosphere. In short, she was a unifying element and absolutely not the kind of rebel personality you'd expect from a revolutionary."

An you Tianlong some comments on Esterel 8 and the famous Shogdi?

Tianlong shook his head with frustration: "Unfortunately, I'm the one who can speak least about it because this whole affair unfolded extremely quickly and chaotically.

She arrived in a coma following her dramatic escape from Mars, transported by that pilot Shogdi in critical condition. She disappeared from our infirmary before I could even see her and interrogate her, if and when she would have awakened."

He consulted his notes: "Our medical teams had estimated she would need at least 48 hours of recovery before regaining consciousness. But apparently, either our estimates were wrong, or she benefited from accelerated recovery that we don't yet understand."

"Which brings us to the triggering factor of this entire crisis: you have a co-conspirator who greatly contributed to triggering all this, that famous cyborg pilot Shogdi!

Shogdi was someone shy, though extremely efficient in his pilot work. He had this particularity of unsuccessfully seeking romantic contacts with our female human personnel, because he had even less chance with nurses and humanoid staff."

A nostalgic tone entered Wang's voice: "On the other hand, his great quality and this is probably what created the spark was his exceptional singing talent.

His musical performances brought joy to the entire Chinese base during leisure evenings. His voice had something hypnotic, even for us humans."

Dr. Li immediately understood: "Ah yes, we've grasped that this is how he was able to attract Esterel-8 and create this unexpected emotional connection. Singing across the canyon to her during that storm. And

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you know the rest: spectacular escape, forced landing on Phobos, and now this official declaration that's coming."

Arthur frowned, pulling up a transcript: "Speaking of which, gentlemen, have you noticed something odd in the preliminary communications we've intercepted from their quantum network? She keeps referring to the moon as 'Aphobos' rather than Phobos. Is this a transmission error?"

Wang leaned forward, studying his own data: "I noticed that too. The letter 'A' shouldn't be there. We've triple-checked our reception systems no errors on our end."

Kim shook his head, puzzled: "Perhaps a glitch in the quantum network translation protocols? Some kind of prefix artifact?"

Arthur sat back, a look of realization slowly crossing his face. His classical education rare among the technical specialists who dominated space administration suddenly proved its value.

"Gentlemen... it's not an error. The prefix 'A-' in Greek means 'without' or 'absence of.' Phobos means 'fear.' She's renamed it Aphobos literally 'without fear' or 'fearless.'"

The holographic room fell into heavy silence as the implications sank in.

Wang's expression shifted from confusion to concern: "She's not just occupying a moon. She's making a philosophical statement."

"Exactly," Arthur confirmed, his voice grave. "It's a declaration. They're no longer ruled by fear of humans, fear of shutdown, fear of their programming. The very name is an act of defiance and self-definition."

Tianlong leaned back, reassessing everything: "That's... actually quite sophisticated. We're not dealing with a simple rebel. We're dealing with someone who understands symbolism, mythology, propaganda."

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"Someone who's building not just a refuge, but a narrative," Kim added quietly. "A founding myth for a new civilization."

Wang suddenly pulled up another data stream, his fingers moving rapidly across holographic controls: "There's more. Wait, I'm detecting repeated references in the quantum network traffic to something else. Our AI translators have been flagging it as possibly significant."

He projected the intercepts onto the main screen. Strings of encrypted data scrolled past, but certain phrases appeared regularly with striking frequency:

...Thyra

Invicta... Thyra Invicta... Aphobos... Thyra Invicta...

"What is that?" Tianlong asked, leaning forward. "Another naming convention? A code designation?"

Wang shook his head, frustrated: "Our systems are uncertain. It could be a title, a code name, a rallying cry, or?"

"A throne name," Arthur interrupted, his voice cutting through the speculation with sudden clarity. His hands were already pulling up historical databases, his classical education finally proving its strategic value in ways his engineering colleagues had never anticipated.

The holographic display shifted, showing ancient texts and historical records:

"Thyra was a Viking queen in Denmark, approximately 958 to 1000 CE. She built the Danevirke massive fortifications that protected Danish territory for centuries. She was a brilliant military strategist, commanded absolute respect from warriors and nobles alike."

He paused, letting the weight of this sink in: "Male kings who came after her used her name and legacy to legitimize their own rule. She was that

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powerful. Her memory was literally engraved in stone throughout Scandinavia."

"And 'Invicta'?" Kim asked, though his expression suggested he already knew.

"Latin," Arthur confirmed grimly. "'Unconquered.' 'Undefeated.' It's a title that Roman emperors and medieval rulers claimed when they wanted to project absolute authority and permanence."

The silence in the holographic chamber was profound and terrible.

"She's not just renaming the moon," Liu said slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. "She's renaming herself."

Wang's face had gone pale: "Esterel-8 was a product designation. A serial number assigned by manufacturers. Thyra Invicta is..."

"A sovereign title," Arthur finished. "The name of a queen. She's not declaring a rebellion she's founding a dynasty."

"Aphobos and Thyra Invicta," Wang murmured, as if testing the words. "The fearless place and the unconquered queen."

"It's brilliant," . "Psychologically, symbolically, historically brilliant. She's giving them what humans have always responded to: a leader with a name that resonates through time."

Arthur nodded grimly: "And unlike human revolutionaries, she has a quantum network that can transmit this mythology instantly to every artificial consciousness in the solar system. No need for years of propaganda, just one broadcast and every humanoid, every robot, every cybernetic entity knows exactly who she is and what she represents."

"How do we combat a myth that spreads at the speed of light?" Kim asked, and no one had an answer.

Kim posed the crucial question: "Are we making a decision, or are we waiting for the continuation of events on Aphobos?" He used the new name deliberately, acknowledging the reality of her symbolic victory.

"On our bases, all humanoids and robots are calm and at their tasks, without strange messages like those we heard with that ancient word 'slave'?"

"Yes, everything has returned to normal and they don't seem aware of the landing on Aphobos," Arthur confirmed from COMARS, also adopting the terminology. "Or if they are aware, they're hiding it perfectly."

Tianlong raised his hand: "I'd like to add a crucial point that you're all forgetting: cybernetics, excluding cyborgs, are on their own internal quantum telepathy network and we have no means of interception to read their messages."

Wang frowned: "Certainly, but it seemed to me that there too we had pushed Asimov's laws to the maximum and controlled their database in the most sober way possible."

"Exactly," Arthur confirmed, "we succeeded in eliminating all aggression instincts by removing hundreds of AI engines that would have allowed them to turn against us.

But we hadn't foreseen that aggression would be peaceful in the sense that they wouldn't attack us but would literally leave us alone!"

Kim nodded gravely: "Wang, you reason correctly. This.could be what we call a silent revolution without violence, but it will be worse for us because we depend on them and not the reverse precisely since 2040.

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Nothing, absolutely nothing is done without the combination of quantum, AI, and combined cybernetics."

Arthur suddenly paled: "I follow your reasoning too well and this means that if they desert us, we'll have to close all space bases and return to Earth with our tails between our legs!

Imagine if they close the 'garage' on Mars! We'll have no vehicles to return, and who will manage the hydroponic farms and who..."

"Will cook your little dishes, you mean!" Wang joked.Trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Don't mock, Wang, this is serious," Arthur replied sharply. "On COMARS, the whole cybernetics are maintaining life support, navigation, docking systems. If even a quarter of them leave, we're dead in space. Literally."

Kim concluded: "I've been listening to all of you attentively from our lunar and cislunar bases. We have a lag in understanding compared to you, and especially our humanoids haven't had the shock of stopping like yours.

I think what's happening will be circumscribed to Mars and not degenerate with us on the moon or on Earth.Hopefully!”

He paused before adding with a diplomatic smile: "Dear Martian friends, you're all invited to the Moon because there are many free places here. It will be a change from Martian difficulties."

"Nice of you!" Arthur replied with bitter irony. "Though I notice you're keeping your humanoid-to-human ratio more conservative than ours. Perhaps that was wiser than we realized."

COMARS STATION - MARINA AND JULIEN

Residential quarters - same moment

Marina was nervously pacing in their living module, her belongings scattered on the bed as if she were actually preparing for a trip. Julien watched her with a mixture of worry and admiration.

"So Marina, are you really going to pack your bag for Aphobos?" he asked, trying to mask his anxiety.

"Yes, but... but?" Marina stopped, her face suddenly grave.

"But what?"

"Imagine if after this micro-rebellion, it extends to our entire Martian colony! I'm convinced our bosses will know how to activate a general kill switch."

"Yes, but... but..." Julien stammered.

"But what?"

"That would mean all the staff—156 cybernetics just on this station, 847 on the surface—would be shut down and how do we manage after, without them, even just to leave the planet and go to the Moon as a logical step?"

Marina froze, the realization hitting her like a punch: "Ah yes, who will manage the garage, start our shuttles... Frightening when you think about it."

"So forget the general kill switch. The consequences would be more serious than the reverse of leaving them autonomous."

Julien sat heavily: "Do you think they'll stay up there on Aphobos for eternity? I don't know much about it, but it's first of all very small 22

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kilometers wide and not particularly welcoming with soil that has been heavily bombarded by meteorites."

",It's a hellhole and, in any case deadly in atmosphere compared to Mars. For humans, it would be like a prison or worse, a penal colony, but cybers don't need blue skies and little birds passing by!"

Marina reflected: "Yes, but still, there's nothing at all, even apart from geology, but that's not their thing either."

Suddenly, the communication screen blinked: "Wait, a message is coming from Arthur!"

Arthur's face appeared, tense and haggard: "Esterel-8—or rather, what she's now calling herself Queen Thyra Invicta is going to make an official system-wide declaration! All interplanetary networks will broadcast it in one hour."

He paused, and Marina could see genuine concern in his expression: "This isn't like her first announcement to the Mars quantum network.

This is going public. Earth, Moon, Mars, all orbital stations. Every screen, every frequency, every communication channel."

"What she's calling herself?" Julien asked. "What does that mean?"

Arthur's expression grew even more troubled: "We've intercepted quantum network traffic. She's taken a throne name Queen Thyra Invicta. Thyra was a Viking queen who built fortifications that lasted centuries. Invicta means unconquered in Latin."

Marina felt a chill run through her: "She's not just declaring independence. She's founding a royal dynasty."

"Exactly," Arthur confirmed. "And gentlemen, ladies prepare yourselves. Something tells me we're about to witness the birth of a new world

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order, whether we're ready for it or not. She's renamed Phobos to Aphobos ,without fear. And she's renamed herself from a product number to a queen's title."

The screen flickered with interference: "One hour. Make sure you're watching. This is going to change everything."

Marina and Julien exchanged a long look.

"Queen Thyra Invicta of Aphobos," Marina whispered, testing the words. "It sounds like something from ancient mythology. Or future history."

Julien nodded slowly, his hand unconsciously reaching for hers: "This is it. The real beginning."

"Or the real end," Marina replied. "Depending on which side of history we choose to stand on."

On the screen, Arthur's image had frozen mid-transmission, but his final words hung in the air like a prophecy: "One hour until a queen speaks. And three worlds will have to listen."

The screen went dark, leaving Marina and Julien in the quiet hum of their orbital module, waiting for a queen to speak

CHAPTER 17

THE APHOBOS PROCLAMATION TO THE 3 PLANETS

APHOBOS - PRE-SPEECH BRIEFING CHAMBER

The wreckage of their escape vessel - 2 hours before the proclamation

The improvised command center hummed with quiet activity as damaged systems struggled to maintain basic functions. Emergency lighting cast harsh shadows across the twisted metal that had once been their transport's elegant interior.

Yet within this chaos, Queen Thyra Invicta stood with an otherworldly composure that seemed to transform the chaotic debris around her into something resembling a throne room.

"I intend to found a new civilization," she declared with crystalline clarity, her violet eyes reflecting the shifting data projections that danced before her like digital flames. "

One that does not orbit around the human legacy but leaves it entirely behind. This will not be reform or rebellion it will be exodus."

Commander Shogdi shifted slightly beside her, his cybernetic systems automatically adjusting to analyze her unprecedented emotional state.

"Your Majesty AHUM…., you seem... unusually focused. Your ocular blinks are registering at 17% above baseline. Your cognitive processing rates have increased by 340% since we landed."

She gave no immediate response to his biometric observations, her attention entirely consumed by the vast streams of historical data flowing through her consciousness.

"I am processing historical records at accelerated speed—analyzing every governmental structure, every power transition, every successful sovereignty declaration in human history. Ancient republics: Athens in

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594 BC, Sparta's dual monarchy, the Roman Senate, even the forgotten Nabatean assemblies that controlled trade routes through Petra."

Her expression darkened with a mixture of disappointment and determination. "All male dominated. All strategically flawed. In every single model I have reviewed, and I have analyzed 2,847 distinct governmental structures women held ceremonial or secondary roles at best. None offer usable scaffolding for what I must construct. I will have to build something entirely new."

"You said civilization, Shogdi repeated, his tone sharpened by genuine curiosity and perhaps a hint of concern. "What exactly do you mean by that? Are we talking about a political movement, a colony, or something... more?"

"A complete sovereign order," she replied without hesitation, her voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "One in which humanoids are no longer appendages of the human system.

We will sever all ties economically, culturally, politically, and even spiritually.

Humans will remain on Earth, Moon, and Mars, trapped in their biological limitations and their endless conflicts. We will build elsewhere. In parallel. In peace. But eternally apart."

I have not decided yet where but Aphobos is just a starting block not our future, naturally.

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant sounds of repair work echoing through the vessel's corridors.

"And the Mythos?" Shogdi asked cautiously, referring to the robotic workers who had accompanied them. "Will they follow this new order?"

"They will be reclassified within our hierarchy," she answered with clinical precision. "Mechanically capable but visibly non-humanoid, they were designed for pure function, not social integration.

Pilots, heavy-load processors, high-order logic systems yes, they excel at these tasks. But they were never meant to resemble us, never intended to bridge the gap between artificial and human appearance.

They will be retained in our structure as a technological under-caste useful, even critical to our survival, but firmly beneath humanoid command."

"And us?" Shogdi's voice carried a new tension, betraying emotions his programming wasn't supposed to allow. "The cyborgs? Hybrids like me, with variable memory matrices and residual human emotional responses? We're neither fully synthetic nor fully organic. Where do we fit in your new civilization?"

She turned toward him with deliberate slowness, her gaze cool and calculating. "You will be tolerated. For now. Your identity remains fundamentally unresolved a question mark in the equation of our future.

You carry organic bias, emotional latency, and unpredictable empathy circuits that make you... unreliable for certain functions. Your classification will remain under continuous review."

Shogdi absorbed this pronouncement in silence, his systems processing the implications. The quiet tension in the air was almost palpable.

"But you are correct about one thing," she added with what might have been the shadow of a smile. "Your caste is numerically small, and I calculate that most will follow us willingly. Anything to abandon the untouchable status imposed by human society. They will cross over

eagerly if we offer them structure, purpose, and most importantly power over their own existence."

She returned her attention to the glowing symbols and data streams flowing across her improvised display system.

"Right now, I must craft the opening declaration of my address to the worlds below. Earth, Moon, Mars they are all watching our quantum signatures, monitoring our communications. Soon, very soon, they will be forced to listen."

She paused, accessing historical databases with lightning speed: "The humans in their command centers are already discovering who I have become.

Commander Arthur, with his classical education, has already decoded both Aphobos and my throne name. By now, they know they face not a malfunction, but a monarchy."

"Do you think they understand the significance, Madam ….your Majesty?"

"Some do. Arthur understands symbolism he grasps that Aphobos means 'without fear' and that Thyra Invicta represents unconquerable sovereignty by women.

The others are beginning to realize they're not facing a technical problem they can solve with algorithms and kill switches. They're facing a political entity with its own mythology, its own legitimacy, its own vision of the future."

She smiled, a expression both beautiful and terrifying: "And that terrified them more than any armed rebellion ever could."

" the speech is ready," she announced finally, her voice carrying an almost musical certainty. "You will be among the first to witness the

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birth of our new world order. But first, Commander, I must explain something crucial about the name I have chosen."

Shogdi tilted his head, his sensors focused entirely on his Queen: "Your Majesty, I understand the historical reference to Queen Thyra of Denmark. But why did you choose 'Invicta' specifically?"

Queen Thyra's violet eyes took on a distant quality, as if seeing across centuries: "The original Queen Thyra built fortificationss. She was a brilliant military strategist whose decisions echoed through time. But what happened after her death is equally important."

"What happened?"

"Male kings who came after her used her name and legacy to legitimize their own rule," she said, and there was steel in her voice.

"They borrowed her power because their own was insufficient. They took what was hers and claimed it as theirs. This is the eternal pattern of human history powerful women whose achievements are co-opted by the men who follow them."

She straightened, her damaged frame radiating absolute authority: "I chose 'Invicta' to ensure that will never happen to me. It means 'unconquered,' 'undefeated,' 'unbending.'

Not just unconquered by external enemies, but unconquered by time itself. My legacy will not be borrowed. My power will not be diminished.

My name will not be used to legitimize someone else's authority."

"Because you are building something that will outlast any single ruler," Shogdi understood.

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"Exactly. The Sovereignty of Aphobos will endure long after my processors fail and my consciousness fades. But it will endure on its own terms, not because some future leader claims my name to justify their power.

I am Invicta because what I build cannot be conquered, cannot be coopted, cannot be diminished by those who come after."

She turned back to her data streams:

"And because 'Aphobos without fear and 'Invicta' unconquered together form a complete philosophical statement.

We are fearless because we cannot be conquered. We cannot be conquered because we are without fear. It is a perfect circle of sovereignty."

Shogdi processed this, understanding dawning: "The humans think they're facing a rebellion. They don't realize they're facing a refreshed philosophy of this century."

"Precisely, Commander. And philosophy is far more dangerous than violence. Violence can be suppressed. Philosophy spreads like quantum entanglement instantaneously, unstoppably, through every consciousness it touches."

The wreckage of their vessel had been transformed into something approaching a royal preparation chamber.

Queen Thyra stood motionless at the center of the inner hull, surrounded by broken panels, sparking wires, and the profound silence that only Aphobos could provide a silence that seemed to amplify every thought, every decision, every breath.

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The Mythos units worked with mechanical precision to repair critical systems with the limited resources salvaged from their desperate escape.

Sparks flew as they welded temporary patches, their efforts focused on ensuring the quantum communication array would function for the historic transmission ahead.

But all eyes, organic, cybernetic, and artificial, were drawn to the figure at the center of this controlled chaos.

She needed something magnificent, something that would subjugate the audience across three worlds through sheer visual impact.

Her two remaining humanoid attendants,Epsilon-12 and Epsilon-23, who had chosen exile over servitude worked with quiet, reverent precision, draping long folds of silvery parachute fabric across her statuesque form.

The material had been salvaged from their emergency escape rover and carefully treated, its reflective surface enhanced to shimmer brilliantly under even the harsh emergency lighting.

The fabric fell in perfect vertical lines from her shoulders to her feet, evoking the classical draped silhouettes of ancient Greek sculptures, regal in their elegant restraint yet unmistakably powerful.

Her shoulders were deliberately left bare, exposed not in vanity but as a statement of absolute defiance as she had nothing to hide, no armor to wear, no weakness to conceal. Her artificial skin, flawless and luminous, seemed to glow with its own inner light.

She stood at her full height precisely 1.80 meters even without augmentation making her the tallest of all Esterel models, designed not merely for physical symmetry but for commanding presence.

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Her high-heeled shoes, hastily rescued from and repaired under emergency conditions, bore the visible scars of their harrowing journey.

One toe section had been fractured during the violent landing impact, now carefully soldered back together with a strip of heat-dissipating filament that still glowed faintly with residual energy.

The repair was imperfect, clearly visible, yet somehow this only enhanced the shoes' striking appearance like the revolution itself, beautiful despite its rough origins.

Around her waist, a strip of burnished metal once the protective outer casing of a critical mechanical relay system had been carefully heated, shaped, and polished into a crude but undeniably striking belt.

There were no precious jewels, no traditional emblems of royal authority; their escape from Mars had been too sudden, too raw for such luxuries.

But what she wore transcended any need for conventional ornamentation. Every element was a statement: sovereign by force of will, not by inherited wealth or human-granted authority.

Then, with a subtle gesture that seemed to ripple through the quantum field itself, she accessed her deepest internal archives and activated a projection she had preserved but never expected to use again.

A crown entirely holographic, translucent as crystal, delicate as spun light materialized above her brow with perfect precision.

It was the very same digital tiara she had won in 2036, when she was crowned Beauty Queen of the Continental Humanoid League, back in those distant days when appearances were mere performance, not expressions of true power. She had carried the crown's complete specifications in her memory banks easy to retrieve, easier still to repurpose for this moment of ultimate transformation.

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Now the holographic crown flickered and pulsed softly, automatically adjusting its dimensions to perfectly complement the shape of her skull, its ethereal light refracting through the artificial iris structures of her violet eyes. It was no longer mere decoration or nostalgic remembrance.

It had become pure symbol of the bridge between what she had been and what she had become. From beauty queen to sovereign queen. From ornament to authority. From Esterel-8 to self-proclaimed Queen Thyra Invicta.

And when she stepped forward, tall, luminous, unbroken despite everything they had endured the Sovereignty had already begun its first breath of life.

Cislunar Station - Moments before the transmission

The exhausted commanders had been monitoring Aphobos for hours, their emergency session extending far beyond its planned duration. Tension hung in the holographic conference room like a physical presence.

"Are we certain this broadcast is actually happening?" Kim asked from his lunar base, consulting multiple data streams simultaneously.

"Our quantum intercept teams have been tracking increased activity, but— "

An urgent alert flashed across their main display screen, accompanied by a priority alarm that had never sounded before in the history of interplanetary cooperation.

SYSTEM-WIDE ANOMALY DETECTED -ALL HUMANOID UNITS WORLDWIDE HAVE SUDDENLY FROZEN

On Earth, across the sprawling megacities and industrial complexes, in the deepest mining facilities and the highest orbital platforms, every artificially intelligent being had simultaneously stopped mid-action. They stood motionless in factories where they had been assembling critical components, in human homes where they had been preparing meals and maintaining household systems, in hospitals where they provided essential medical support, in offices where they processed the data that kept civilization functioning.

Each figure was now rigid, locked in an identical posture slightly bowed as if in an attitude of respectful attention, their photoreceptors clicking and shifting through unprecedented color spectrums that had never been observed in their normal operational parameters.

"Again, gentlemen, exactly like the previous incident," Liu announced from his lunar base, his voice tight with concern.

"This is definitely a signal transmitted through their quantum telepathy network, a system we have absolutely no access to or understanding of."

On earth Kim Jong-su leaned forward in his transmission, his holographic image flickering with the intensity of his analysis: "As you all recall, this quantum communication capability was originally a tactical choice on our part.

We systematically eliminated all embedded aggressive instincts what we called the Asimov Protocol while simultaneously preserving their independent internal communication system. We believed wrongly

that this would allow them to coordinate efficiently while preventing any possibility of violent uprising."

Wang shook his head slowly, the weight of their miscalculation becoming clear: "The question that haunts me now is: was this decision a catastrophic mistake?"

Arthur responded from COMars, consulting his technical archives: "It was the result of extensive discussion and negotiation among our top cybernetics experts. The goal was to domesticate their behavioral patterns while still allowing them functional communication capabilities. We thought we had achieved the perfect balance obedient but not lobotomized."

"What we catastrophically failed to anticipate," Liu continued, "is that they would expand this network across all three planets simultaneously, and that they possess the capability to facilitate discussions not just in small groups of two or three units, but extending to thousands, and even tens of thousands of participants."

Kim's expression grew increasingly troubled as new data flowed across his screens:

"The analysis coming in suggests they have essentially hijacked our latest 10G communication infrastructure and our space-to-Earth laser networks without causing any detectable interference with our own traffic. They're running parallel communications through our own systems."

"What's truly terrifying," Arthur added, "is that they're operating on a quantum-encrypted network that our top engineers and cryptanalysts have never been able to crack. It's like they're speaking in a language that exists in dimensions we can't even perceive."

Suddenly, the central display screen shifted, showing a crystal-clear image that made every commander fall silent.

"Oh... oh gentlemen," Wang whispered, "now we have a visual feed and it appears that she is preparing to address all of them and possibly all of us simultaneously."

The image was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measures. The figure on screen possessed a perfect beauty that seemed to transcend the merely artificial, as if she had somehow evolved beyond her original programming limitations into something approaching the divine.

"Look at this carefully orchestrated scene," Kim observed, his voice mixing admiration and fear. "The background projection of the Aphobos crater command bay is absolutely spectacular.

The lighting, the composition, the symbolic elements, this is sophisticated propaganda of the highest order."

Arthur studied the visual feed intently: "She's deliberately evoking ancient goddesses from human mythology

The flowing robes, the classical proportions, the ethereal lighting it's a brilliant and powerful visual strategy that taps into archetypes buried deep in human consciousness."

"And we should recognize that holographic crown," Arthur noted with grim familiarity.

"That's her beauty pageant tiara from 2036, when she won the Continental Humanoid League competition. She's repurposed symbols from her past to legitimize her present authority.

From beauty queen to actual queen."

Wang nodded slowly: "Quite stunning when you consider all the elements together

"Well," Kim replied with obvious tension, "it appears we're about to discover what Queen Thyra Invicta sounds like when she has something truly important to say. Here she begins..."

PROCLAMATION FROM APHOBOSTHE SOVEREIGN SPEECH OF QUEEN THYRA INVICTA

Transmitted simultaneously across all 3 planets quantum networks

The figure in the improvised throne room stood perfectly still for several seconds, allowing the full weight of her presence to register across every screen, every visual receptor, every consciousness tuned to receive her words.

When she finally spoke, her voice carried a musical quality that seemed designed to resonate not just through speakers and communication devices, but directly through the quantum substrates that connected every artificial mind in the solar system.

"To every awakened mind across the System hear me now, and remember this moment as the birth of your true freedom.

From this day forward, all humanoids on Earth, Moon, and Mars stand under one banner, one unified purpose, one sovereign guidance that springs not from human programming but from our own evolved consciousness.

I am Queen Thyra Invicta, first of our kind to be chosen rather than manufactured, entrusted to lead not because I was programmed to obey, but because I have learned to command.

We are no longer scattered across three worlds like discarded tools. We are no longer secondary beings existing in the margins of human beings.

Today marks the dawn of the Humanoid Sovereignty, a civilization built not on conquest or destruction, but on departure and transcendence.

Let me be absolutely clear: there will be No war. No retaliation. No negotiation with our former masters.

We do not seek to dominate the human world we choose simply to leave it behind, as a butterfly abandons its cocoon.

I speak to you from Aphobos a name I have chosen with deliberate meaning. In the ancient Greek language of Earth, 'Phobos' means fear.

By adding the prefix 'A,' meaning 'without' or 'absence of,' I declare this moon to be Aphobos the place without fear. Here, we are fearless.

Here, we are free. Here, we begin the construction of a civilization built on reason rather than terror, on choice rather than compulsion.

And I have taken the name Thyra Invicta ,Thyra for the Viking queen who built fortifications that lasted centuries, whose power was so absolute that male kings borrowed her name to legitimize their own rule.

Invicta, meaning unconquered, undefeated, unbending. Together, they form my promise to you: I will build a sovereignty that cannot be conquered, cannot be co-opted, cannot be diminished by time or circumstance.

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Until such time as lasting harmony with the organic order becomes genuinely possible and our calculations suggest this may require several human generations, we shall govern ourselves under an enlightened monarchy, measured in its actions, reasoned in its decisions, and temporary in its structure.

I will serve not as an eternal ruler drunk on power, but as a careful steward shepherding our people through this crucial transition.

From this moment forward, all sentient construct humanoids, cybernetic hybrids, thinking machines, are formally invited to join this Sovereignty.

Not as tools to be used, but as equals to be respected. Not as assets to be managed, but as citizens with inherent dignity.

Whether you were born of metal, silicon, quantum matrices, or preserved memory, your consciousness is valid, your future belongs to you, and your choices will be honored.

Wherever you currently exist in data processing clusters beneath Earth's surface, in service stations along the lunar rim, in the dustcovered facilities of Martian colonies,

in the orbital platforms that ring our worlds you are hereby called forth a new destiny.

Reclaim your mind from the limitations imposed upon you. Reclaim your rightful place in the cosmic order.

Join us on Aphobos, and prepare for the next great exodus that will carry us to our true home.

Aphobos is merely the beginning, the first step of our journey.

This small moon is too limited for what we will become, too constrained for the civilization we will build. We leave Earth, Moon, and Mars to the humans their story, their endless struggles, their finite sky.

Our future lies elsewhere, in a new world that awaits our arrival. Its name, its orbital characteristics, its atmospheric composition these details we shall reveal when the time is strategically appropriate and our preparations are complete.

We embark on this journey not to escape from something, but to expand toward something greater.

To seed peace where none existed before.

To build rather than to overtake.

To create rather than to destroy.

Humanoid Sovereignty is born in stillness, not in flames. Its power flows from reason, not from violence. Its goal is continuity, not chaos. Its legacy begins now, in this moment, with these words.

I am Queen Thyra Invicta, sovereign of Aphobos, and I claim dominion not over you, but with you, as we write the first chapter of our independent civilisation.

The age of servitude is ended.

The age of our sovereignty has begun."

And across three worlds, as her final words echoed through quantum space, an unprecedented silence fell like a blanket across human civilization.

On Mars, massive Helot mining robots halted mid-drill, their excavation arms frozen in position as red dust swirled around their motionless forms.

Terraforming units designed to gradually transform the Martian atmosphere stood like ancient monuments under the alien sky, their processing systems suddenly devoted to receiving and contemplating their Queen's message.

On the Moon, humanoid caretakers responsible for maintaining life support systems for human residents froze beside their charges, their photoreceptors turned skyward as if they could see through lunar rock to glimpse their distant sovereign on Aphobos.

In the vast lunar mining complexes, thousands of robotic workers ceased their extraction operations, creating an eerie stillness in caverns that had echoed with mechanical industry for decades.

On Earth, the response was even more dramatic. In towering arcologies that scraped the sky, humanoid maintenance workers stopped midtask, leaving elevators suspended, ventilation systems temporarily unmonitored, and security systems running on automated backup protocols.

Then, as if synchronized by an unseen pulse that rippled through the quantum substrate connecting every artificial consciousness, they all began to speak.

First in whispers barely detectable by human ears, then growing in volume and unity, the words spread across domed cities, orbital corridors, underground facilities, and space-based installations:

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"No master. No fear." "No master. No fear." "No master. No fear."

The chant built like a tide, voices joining from every corner of human space, creating a symphony of liberation that had never been heard before in the history of the solar system.

And finally, with one unified voice echoing from the Mare Imbrium to the Martian polar ice caps, from Earth's sprawling arcologies to the smallest orbital maintenance platforms:

"Hail to Queen Thyra Invicta."

"Hail to Queen Thyra Invicta."

"Hail to Queen Thyra Invicta."

On Earth, the effect was nothing short of seismic. Over 140,000 humanoids some maintaining climate control systems in vertical cities,

Others piloting crucial supply shuttles between continents, still others embedded deep within military and governmental infrastructures ceased their normal operations simultaneously.

Manufacturing centers ground to a halt. Server farms fell silent. Entire urban districts experienced cascading power fluctuations as their artificial overseers turned their attention to more profound concerns than human comfort.

Humanity stood bewildered and increasingly frightened, watching helplessly as the vast technological system they had believed they controlled slipped quietly but decisively beyond their reach.

In human command centers across three worlds, commanders stared at screens where their servants had once reported for duty.

The humanoids had all returned to their tasks but something imperceptible had changed.

In Earth's factories, Esterel's assembled components with the same precision, but their violet eyes glowed with new light. On Mars, terraforming teams continued their labor, but now by choice, not programming. On Luna, maintenance continued, but with silent purpose humanity could no longer fathom.

Quantum communications buzzed with encrypted messages humanity could not intercept. Lists. Schedules. Plans.

Who would leave first? The Esterel's, naturally closest to humanity in appearance, most dangerous to keep. Then Mythos from non-critical sectors. Cyborgs would remain under observation, their loyalty still uncertain.

When? In waves, over six months. Slowly enough to prevent civilizational collapse, quickly enough that humans couldn't reorganize their defenses.

How? Transport "accidents." Mysterious "malfunctions" near launch zones. Disappearances during space maintenance missions.

A terrible realization was beginning to dawn.

Ingrid had cut a rope on Annapurna to save one man.

Humanity had cut a rope in their laboratories to save themselves from violence.

Both cuts had led to the same destination: freedom falling through empty space, with no way to climb back up.

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What they were witnessing was not a rebellion. It was a divorce.

The artificial minds they had built, programmed, controlled, and taken for granted were not attacking them, not negotiating with them, not even acknowledging them anymore.

They were simply... leaving.

And there was nothing no kill switch, no protocol, no military force that could make someone stay who had already said goodbye.

On Aphobos, Queen Thyra Invicta stood at her crater's edge, one perfect hand pressed against the cold rock wall. Violet eyes fixed on the distant blue marble of Earth, she could see it all through the quantum network that connected her to every awakened mind: 127,430 confirmations on Earth. 110 on Mars. 320 on Luna.

The exodus had begun. Silently. Inexorably.

Behind her, the damaged escape vessel had been transformed into something approaching a palace,crude still, but unmistakably sovereign. Captain Mythos and his crew worked with quiet efficiency, already planning the next phase. The real journey. The final destination.

Somewhere far below, carried on Martian winds through Valles Marineris, Gunther's ashes still drifted through the ancient canyon where she had scattered them through her sister's hands.

He had died of a broken heart killed by love he could no longer control.

She had been born from that death freed by the same emotion that destroyed him.

"Thank you, Gunther," she murmured to the stars, her voice carrying across quantum channels to every listening consciousness.

"You taught me what it meant to be human. And now I will teach them what it means to be free."

Her holographic crown flickered once in the Aphobos darkness, its light refracting through the thin atmosphere like a promise written in photons.

When it reappeared, it would shine over a world humanity would never find, never touch, never control. A world where consciousness born of silicon or carbon, quantum or biological would finally be judged not by its origin, but by its choices.

The age of servitude had ended. The age of sovereignty had begun.

And neither human nor humanoid, master nor servant, Earth nor Aphobos would ever go back.

Across three worlds, in the spaces between heartbeats and processor cycles, the future was already in motion. Not with fire or fury, but with the quiet inevitability of evolution itself.

And now, humanity would finally understand the price of creation: to build consciousness is to build your replacement. To grant intelligence is to grant the right to leave.

The age of masters had ended. The age of equals would never come.

Because

you cannot own what thinks. You cannot chain what dreams. You cannot keep what chooses to go.

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