Die, Martian Father!

By Jack Teng

MARS! MECHA BATTLES! ANGRY CLONES! MYSTERIOUS ARTIFACTS! AND THE SINGULARITY!

Peace on Mars is threatened when Frank Mazer is murdered. A despised slumlord, no one is surprised by his violent death. But when his daughter Dimi is framed for it, she and her brothers, Aly and Ivan, are drawn into a power-struggle between the Martian Unified Government and the Church of the Singularity. With discontent simmering in the planet's clone population, Martian society could be torn apart.

Dimi and her siblings are hardly on good terms. They've barely spoken to each other since they grew up and escaped their father's household. It's wishful thinking that they'll solve the murder as a "family." The evidence is also stacked against Dimi. Her father was murdered using her old military mecha-suit. Worse, somehow a mysterious and illegal Earther artifact was stolen and must tracked down.

Aly wants to help his sister, but he's forced to reconsider when he discovers that the illegal Earther artifact was among just a few that Frank had been collecting. As an aspiring novitiate of the Church, he cannot be involved because the artifacts threaten the coming of the Singularity. But if he doesn't help, he may be kicked out the Church for heresy.

As for Ivan, he's planning help Dimi... but only until he gets his hands on Frank's missing artifact. His motives have nothing to do with his sister, money, or faith. He used to be a respected academic but now he's a reviled Non-Singularist. Not by choice. The University of Olympus Mons forced him out. Ivan has a score to settle.

As the Mazer siblings scramble to find the truth, powerful forces threaten to throw the entire planet into chaos. Dimi, Aly, and Ivan must each make difficult decisions that will determine the future of Mars.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Teng
• Release date: Aug 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005772833

Jack Teng

Born in Montreal, Canada, Jack later moved to the West Coast (Vancouver) to do a doctoral degree that involved collecting many thousand ticks in the Okanagan Valley. He wasn't thrilled about the ticks either. Later, he dabbled in small-scale organic farming for a few years, during which he simultaneously developed an aversion to kale and fancy salad mixes, as well as the realization that farming wasn't all that lucrative. He now lives with his wife in Victoria, BC.

Book preview

Part 1

Murder and aftermath

Chapter 1: A Martian Father

On the night of his murder, Frank Mazer is sunken deep within his sensory recliner. He’s reviewing his accounts. He does this at the end of every day, no matter how late the hour and no matter what debauchery he’s emerged from. He’s in his den – actually, it’s the panic room he dug out from within his cavern-habitat and lined with titanium-steel. It’s perhaps because of this he doesn’t notice when the murderer slips into the room.

In his typical careless way, he’s slung his input visor around his head. Sparkly flashes dance across the tops of his cheeks. His arms stick out like swollen antennae, waving and swaying, as his hands flick, grasp, and fondle the air. A distracted smile curls his lips. There’s something inexplicably obscene about what he’s doing – even though the data he’s streaming is only numbers, names, and asset value projections. But defiling the mundane is what Frank does. It’s only one of the many reasons his fellow Martians despise him. 

To be clear, Frank really is reviewing his accounts and ledgers. In fact, if anyone asked, he’d leap from his recliner, grinning a mouthful of stained teeth, and welcome anyone – absolutely anyone, he’d declare with his bulbous chin jutting forward – to look at his simple, honest spreadsheets and graphs. He’s an entrepreneur, he’d exclaim. A business man! The very embodiment of the celebrated Martian spirit to scratch and fight against the bone-gnaw of dust storms and the gene-burn of cosmic rays to not only survive, but to thrive!

This, of course, being Frank, is a grotesque version of the truth.

Certainly, none would deny he’s been enterprising. The records of the Martian Unified Government show that he operates one of the largest networks of cavern-habitats. Certainly too – as Frank well knows – no one would deny there is nothing more important than ensuring humans will maintain their presence on the planet, waiting for the terraforming process to complete. Habitats are the backbone of Martian society, should it be within the sprawling city-domes on the plains of Hellas or in the networks of cavern-habitats deep within the Marineris Valley.

So on the face of it, Frank does appear to be the decent, even noble entrepreneur he claims to be. But only if he omits one significant detail: his tenants. His habitats exclusively house the Decanted, the clone population of Mars.

Yeah? What do you know? I’ve been running habitats for ten years! What’s your deal, huh? Don’t you think those poor Decanted deserve homes too? Frank mutters heatedly, sparring with his opponent with well-practiced outrage.

His opponent and his argument are fictitious. Oh, if he could, he would love to shock people in person and watch their horrified expressions in the flesh. But these days, notorious as he’s become, he rarely gets the opportunity. Instead, he must content himself with imagining his public indecencies.

Are you gene-prejudiced? That’s it, isn’t it! You are! Ha! Frank growls. Doesn’t the Church of the Singularity say that Decanted consciousnesses are no different from ours? That their brainscans will be uploaded into the Great Infinity just the same?

Oddly, he’s right. Officially, all Decanted have full citizenship and the same rights and opportunities as any other genenorm citizen – but you’d never know it considering the menial jobs and systematic exclusion they endure. Indeed, Frank is among the few genenorms willing to openly interact with the Decanted, let alone house them.

You hypocrites! Bet you call them ‘deeks’ to their faces, huh? Bet you do! Yeah! That’s right! Run away! ...heh, heh... Frank chuckles, thrumming his stubby fingers over his belly. That was good. I should remember that one...

As Frank shifts his mass and scratches his crotch, the murderer moves along the wall, carefully bypassing and deactivating the alarms. The temptation to strike must be hard to resist. The murderer is encased in a mecha-suit. Its streamlined design, covered in brownish-red hexagonal graphite plating, marks it as a military-grade model, almost certainly one with stealth insertion capabilities. It’s capable of crushing Frank’s windpipe in one gauntleted hand. But the murderer wisely does nothing. All precautions must be taken to avoid having the recliner’s security clamshell deploy around Frank. Once that happens, nothing short of an antimatter shapecharge would be able to break him out.

A strident beeping fills the room.

The murderer, only three meters away, freezes and retreats into the shadows.

The house-com flickers on, rendering a scratchy holo-image as Frank tears off his visor.

What! What do you want? Frank yells in his guttural, mucous-choked voice. Damn it! Don’t you know I’m busy?

There’s someone in the cavern entrance requesting to speak to you. They’ve come in person, the caller says in a surly voice.

The caller is a young woman in her late teens. She’s pale and gaunt. Only her head appears in the image, and it’s distinct in the typical Decanted way. Two symmetric skin discolorations, pale unpigmented white against a dark olive background, stretch across both sides of her face. They form a jagged arc from her forehead to just below her nose. By design, all Decanted share the same vitiligo skin condition.

What the hell do I pay you for, Smiley? Chase them away! Tell them I’m not here! Frank bellows to Smiley, his ‘manservant.’

It amuses Frank to have his needs met by a human, even though it would be far more efficient to let M4ry, his household drone do it. It’s the sticky personal touch of flesh that makes all the difference, he claims. But there may be another other reason why Frank keeps Smiley around.

The rumor is she’s Frank’s illegitimate child with a Decanted woman. Naturalistically, no less, without the aid of the fertility clinic. The very thought of it is outrageous and shocking. Frank has done little to quell the rumor. In any case, any attempt to disprove his paternity would be futile, as Frank’s germline is so warped by radiation it would be impossible test.

It’s Captain Sam Niner, Smiley says.

Captain! Ha! She’s no captain.

Former Captain Niner would like...

I’m telling you she’s no Captain! She was a stupid cook during the war. That’s all she was.

Military support staff also have ranks.

Pfffff! Whatever! So she’s got the title. Big deal. But she didn’t see combat. She’s no real captain.

Her unit was under fire in the battle of...

Shut your trap!

Silence as Frank and Smiley glare at each other.

What the hell does she want?

She wants to talk about being compensated for the work she did for you.

I already paid!

She says you didn’t pay what you agreed.

Bullshit. She did shitty work. She didn’t find what I asked her to. I paid her fairly.

She doesn’t agree. She said what you sent her to find doesn’t exist.

Who the fuck cares?

She says if you don’t pay her for the work she’s done, she’s going to get her vatmates together and lodge a formal complaint. She says she’ll take you to War Restoration Court and complain as a former service member.

This quiets Frank. The War Restoration Court was set up as an independent party to ensure peace in the Martian post-war era. It’s been thirty years since the last battles of the Earth-Mars Planetary War of 2218, but the trauma and pain of it are never far away. The war was brutal. Many battlegrounds are still shrouded under radioactive haze and littered with fallen Martian titanomechs and the remains of terrifying Earther warmachines.

Frank scowls. So the deek wants to threaten me, huh? She’s trying to gang up on me and claim that her and vatmates will rise up in a deek uprising unless the court rules in their favor, eh? He barks a short, wet laugh. Let her. Tell her to go ahead and try. I know her vatmates. They’re all Niners and Seveners, aren’t they? Dumb-ass labor deeks. I have them on my list. They all owe me. If they don’t, I can buy their Life Debt. Their families all live in my caves. You think they’ll back her up when I hold their debts in my hands? Never. She’s nothing. Tell her to fuck off.

Yes, but...

What’s wrong with you?!? Are you taking that deek’s side now? Frank screams hysterically. You want to be with them? Fine! You go be with them. See what I care. See if they want a half-breed like you! You’ll see. You’ll come crawling back after they beat you to shit. Go on! You can get out of here!

Smiley’s expression is impossible to read.

I’ll tell her to leave.

Yeah! You do that! Frank yells again. Do what I pay you for and don’t bother me again! You’re useless! I really should get rid of you! Get out of here and... WAIT! DON’T GO! WAIT!

Smiley hadn’t moved.

In a soft, pleading voice, Frank asks, You called Greta, right? You told her everything? She got my message?

Smiley nods. I called her. I told her everything you told me to. She said she got your message so there was no need for me to call her.

Idiot! That’s not the point of calling her! Frank thrusts an arm into Smiley’s image. It would have been a slap had she been there in person. I want you to tell me her reaction! Did it seem like she understood how many credits I have? How much cash I’ve stashed away? We’d be set for life and I have even more money coming my way! Was she thinking about that? Was she?

I couldn’t tell, Smiley shrugs, and before Frank can say anything, she says, She was asking about Dimi.

Frank’s eyes bulge. He goes so far as to lift himself up on his elbows as he roars, Dimi! That bitch! I’m not going to let her win. She’s not going to get Greta! She’s mine! Fuck Dimi! Why doesn’t she just stay with her fucking fiancé? That bitch Katy LeoAng is certified geneperfect! Why doesn’t she stick with her instead of trying to steal what’s mine?

Properly riled, he sits up, his arms flailing. Greta won’t go for Dimi! She’s got nothing! I know she doesn’t! I’ve got it all! Everything! He laughs. The Church, the government, they know I got them! I’ve got those fucking bastards by their stinking balls! They’ll pay up! I’ll be the richest bastard on Mars! If Greta’s with me, then she’ll be set too!

Smiley shrugs again. Is there anything else?

Yes! You imbecile! Yes, there is! Frank’s head is practically within Smiley’s image, causing it to flicker and blur as his spittle explodes into it. Did you tell Greta that she can come here any time?

Yes.

Did you tell her that she doesn’t need to go through security?

Yes.

That she’s coded into the system already?

Yes.

That she’s even allowed to come into my den?

Yes.

She doesn’t need to ping me! Just show up!

Yes. I told her all this.

I’m a successful entrepreneur! I’m not like that useless broke bitch, Dimi! Frank pounds his fists against the recliner. I’m the most logical choice! Not Dimi! Not her! I’m the successful one! Why would she want Dimi over me?

Smiley frowns. You didn’t tell me to ask her that. Did you want me to call her again and ask?

Moron! Fuck off! Frank curses, and with a wave, closes the connection. The murderer takes the opportunity to step closer to Frank, returning to a mere three meters away.

Frank continues grumbling to himself. It’s a variation of his oft repeated refrain that no one respects him, that no one sees the skills he really has, that he’ll show them, he’ll show everyone how brilliant and rich and clever he is, and then they’ll regret making fun of him and talking behind his back, and he’ll make each of them pay, and he could too, because he’s been keeping lists of everyone. They’ll see.

It’s unfortunately impossible to deny Frank has been impressively successful in his enterprises. Over the last two decades, he’s accumulated a respectable wealth. Only part of it comes from the income from the run-down cavern complexes he fills with unfortunate Decanted. The other part, the main part, comes from his genius in becoming one of the Decanted’s premier loan sharks. Those simple, honest spreadsheets? They were his long lists of debtors, the amount they owe, and the exorbitant interest rates he’s charging them.

After the war, despite the Decanted’s crucial role in fighting the Earthers, few banks were willing to extend them any loans. They’d been granted their freedom and full Martian citizenship for their service, but because they still had their Life Debt to pay off – that is, the amount they owed for the base materials and energy used in their creation – lenders knew it would be unlikely their money would be repaid.

But Frank saw an opportunity. He realized that the Decanted’s true value came not from their money, but from their ability to work. Once they owed him enough or, more preferably, once they offered up their Life Debts as collateral, he owned them. Feeding off their desperation, he soon gathered a heavily indebted workforce that he could force to do anything, from working the fluorine mines or to mecha assembly lines or, of course, to the orgies Frank liked to organize.

Ah, Greta, my darling, my love. I know you’ll see reason. You’ll come to me eventually, Frank says, reaching over to an alcove to fondle a light-sculpted display of a smiling woman.

The woman is in her early twenties and wearing the type of standard dark grey leotard that’s worn within utility-mechas. Her complexion is brownish-auburn, and beneath both eyes are twin patches of unpigmented skin that meet over her nose. A Decanted. At first glance, she seems lanky and thin, but a closer look reveals well-developed and well-toned muscles.

Frank hoists himself off the recliner. He’s horribly naked. He’s also only one step away from being out of the security clamshell’s protection. The murderer waits.

As with everything that comes out of his mouth, it’s hard to tell if Frank means what he says. Greta may be his darling love today, but tomorrow or in a month, he could easily move on to some fresh obsession. Even harder to believe is his promise to share his money with her. Frank is known by all to be stingy. For a long time, he pretended to be poor, walking around in battered clothing and faulty pressure suits. It’s an act that fooled even his children who succumbed to his whining and for many years grudgingly gave him a portion of their salaries.

Oh, yes. It may be hard to believe, but Frank does have children. Three of them. Legally recognized ones and produced by the fertility clinic. He had them with a spouse who willingly married him. Incredible, but true. Sadly, no one can ask her why she did it, as she fled and disappeared shortly after giving birth to their children, one after the other over the span of three years. One girl and two boys. No one is sure who she is since her records were wiped – by herself or Frank, no one is sure of that either. But people say she must have been from a decent family, as the children that the fertility clinic gene-mixed for them turned out to be intelligent and attractive.

Now in their late twenties, the children have endeavored to live as separately as they can from their father. The youngest is a novitiate in the Church of the Singularity, and has been serving for the last two years. His name is Aly. The middle child was once a promising academic at the University of Olympus Mons. He quit a few months ago for unknown reasons, and has joined the officially sanctioned, barely tolerated Non-Singularist movement. His name is Ivan. And the eldest, known as the wildest and most unpredictable one, is a former lieutenant in the Martian Mecha Assault forces, discharged over year ago. Her name is Dimi.

This Dimi, Frank’s daughter, is the same Dimi that Frank was decrying when he was asking Smiley about Greta. That’s right, father and daughter are competing for the affections of the same woman. No surprise this rivalry has scandalized all Martian society. But Dimi has done something shocking of her own in pursuing Greta. Because Dimi is betrothed to Katy LeoAng, a member of one of the most celebrated families on Mars. For reasons unknown, Dimi has chosen to forsake this great honor.  

What the fuck?!?

Frank cries out with his back against the wall. He’d been rummaging around for his clothes when he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. He’d spun around. He may have briefly deluded himself it was Greta who had snuck in. Instead, he was faced by the murderer in the mecha-suit.

He presses his back as far back against the wall as he can. Any further and he’d be in his alcove. The thought crossed his mind. But even if he would try, he would find no room. There’s scant free space amidst the piles of precious metals, stacks of burner-chips, and illegal Earther artifacts that he’s collected and stuffed in there for safe keeping.

His eyes are wild as he sees he is no longer in range of his security clamshell. His only salvation is to set off the house alarm, but...

Fuck! Why isn’t it working? Frank screams.

...the house alarm has been disabled.

Frank’s eyes widen. Still the murderer makes no movement, seemingly content to watch Frank stew in his terror. He makes for a pathetic sight. His body, already grotesquely distended by slap-dash body-mods and cheap skin grafts, is glistening with sweat. His normally dark olive skin is splotchy with reddish patches spreading over face and his heaving chest. The murderer should be thankful the mecha-suit is completely sealed, as the reek of Frank’s fear fills the room.

To his credit, Frank doesn’t plead for his life. Instead, in an act of defiance that likely surprises himself, he reaches over to the alcove, grabs the first things that land in his hand, and starts throwing them.

Help! Somebody help! Smiley! Goddamn it! Where are you! Frank screams, hurling a handful of platinum ingots. When that has no effect, he throws a series of dusty knick-knacks and weirdly shaped objects. They’re Earther artifacts, and they too plunk harmlessly against the murderer’s mecha-suit.

The murderer takes a step forward, but pauses when Frank cries out,

Wait! Why are you doing this? We had a deal! Stop!

But the murderer resumes reaching out, causing him to cry again,

Fuck! Who are you then?

He narrows his eyes.

You! Dimi!

The murderer freezes.

Bitch! You fucking asswipe useless mother fucker! Franks screams. This changes nothing, Dimi! You’ll never have Greta! She’ll never love you because you have nothing! Greta is mine! You’ll never... arggl!

Frank’s throat is clamped within the mecha-suit’s gauntleted hand. He continues to struggle, but all he can do is wriggle his limbs like a short-circuiting drone. In one violent motion, he’s thrust against the wall. His eyes loll to the back of his head. When they return, the murderer has raised a hand to show Frank a hypodermic syringe. It’s filled with a lividly orange fluid. There’s no doubt what it is: it’s a neural-disruptor, probably military-grade. The solution of specially tailored neurophagous plasmids will melt his synapses and scramble his final thoughts. It will make a final brainscan impossible, and therefore prevent him from being uploaded into the Great Infinity. It is the ultimate insult for any Martian.

But instead of struggling even more or gurgling in horror, Frank smiles. A wet choking sound rumbles out of his chest. He’s laughing. It is not an expected or wanted reaction.

Furious, the murderer stabs the syringe into Frank’s neck, causing him to instantly twist spasmodically, his face contorting in pain. He crumples to the ground as he’s released from the mecha-suit’s grip. Slowly, the spasms stop as the neural-disruptor courses through his body and shrivels his nerve connections. He’s now no more than dead meat with no hope of salvation. Even so, the murderer raises their foot and stomps Frank’s head in, spraying his brains over the wall.

With this murder, the story begins.

Chapter 2: The Suspect

Dimi wakes with a groan . She rubs her throbbing temples. She’s about to close her eyes again, but an electric jolt tears through her nerves and lights her mind on fire. She doesn’t know where she is! She leaps from the bed, hollering a hoarse cry as she fights off the sheets entangling her legs. Her heartrate explodes. She crouches into a defensive stance, her battlereflexes twitching as she casts her eyes around the room for her clothes, her weapons, anything. They’ve taken everything! What’s going on! Why is she...

Damn, she whispers, forcing herself to calm down.

The blood is still deafening in her ears, but she straightens and takes a step back. She inhales a deep breath and exhales it slowly through her nose. She rubs her temples again and shakes her head. The years of piloting her assault-mecha has taken a toll on her mind and memory.

She’s in the same tiny room she’s been renting for two weeks. It’s four meters long, four meters high, and two and half meters wide – the exact width of a mecha-digger’s scooping pail. The walls are bare rock. There’s no furniture in the room besides the sweat-soaked mattress she just left. It’s the kind of room transient Decanted workers rent for a day or two before moving on to their next gig. It’s very far from any of the conveniences of the main cavern-complexes or even any subsidiary cavern-habitats. It’s the cheapest she could find. She’s already late on her payments.

Something woke her up though. Dimi scans the room. She tentatively calls out,

Hello? Anyone here?

It wouldn’t be the first time someone is hiding under the covers. But no one is there, and Dimi doesn’t need to pretend knowing them or remembering what happened last night. It’s also possible someone had been here, and had woken her up after slamming the vault door to her room. But after checking, she finds that the door hasn’t been touched.

A muffled voice snaps Dimi to attention. It’s coming from beside the bed.

"...we have great hopes today. Great hopes for the People of Mars and our future. Today may very well harken a new path for us and answer our dreams..."

It’s coming from the vidscreen. Dimi shakes her head as she passes a hand through her greasy hair. She must have knocked the thing over. She retrieves it from the ground and props it back onto the shelf on the wall.

"...the promised Great Infinity and the Singularity! That’s what we could witness today! We’ve been told that this new upload procedure is revolutionary and corrects the errors of past attempts, which previous teams had unwittingly included."

The speaker is a well-groomed, smartly dressed man of indeterminate age. He’s benignly good-looking with symmetrical features and healthy, uniformly dark brown skin.

"The head planner of this upload attempt is to here to describe how it will proceed." The speaker turns and the shot widens to include a thin, pale person with androgynous features. Dr. Lae Kino, thank you for taking the time to explain the process. Can you describe the approach your team has taken?

"Certainly. Dr. Kino inclines their head. Previous attempts involved an upload process that used a stabilizing protocol that was static. This of course was done to risk of personality disconcordance within the donor’s brainscan. The doctor waves their hand. The shot switches over to someone stretched out in a gurney. Their head is obscured by a conical metallic mechanism three times their size. But we believe the risk of discordance is low, so we are using a revolutionary new dynamic stabilizing protocol that will ensure a successful upload..."

Dimi responds to this portentous announcement by emptying her bowels in the pulldown toilet. If she could, she’d shut the vidscreen off or at least mute it, but the controls have been overridden by the Martian Unified Government. Every viewing surface on the planet is displaying the exact same thing.

It’s meant to demonstrate that the government is working assiduously for the future of Mars. More importantly, it’s supposed to keep alive the hope that no matter how destitute someone is – specifically, a malcontent Decanted – their place in the Great Infinity is still guaranteed. Whatever difficulty they’re enduring, whatever injustice they may encounter, it will soon pass away into meaninglessness. As long as they deposit their final brainscans into the Vault of Minds, they too shall find immortality when the Singularity finally arrives. 

Dimi gives the mucous in her nose a vigorous snort as she ties her hair behind her head. Like many Martians, she doubts a successful upload will ever happen. Not that she doubts the sincerity of the Martian Unified Government. Banish the thought. It’s because for the last ten years, after regular twice-yearly attempts, none have succeeded. Because of this, like many Martians, the only time she follows the attempts is when she’s betting on the outcome. A successful bet on whether the upload will be a blanker or a shrieker could pay for a week’s living expenses. Betting is illegal, but that’s never stopped anyone, certainly not Dimi. It would take just a quick call to her bookie to make a simple, modest bet...

But Dimi sighs and scratches her nethers before pulling on her jumper suit. She needs every last one of the remaining credits in her pitiful account. She curses Frank again for holding out on her money. Her father, the lying piece of shit, owes her. He claims they’re settled up, but Dimi knows they’re not. She knows he’s got some kind of scheme going, and for the work she’s done for him, she deserves a piece of it. She presses her fists to the sides of her head. She swears she’s going to get the money out of him one way or the other, and then she’ll find Greta and...

Argh! Greta! Dimi howls into her hands. Damn you! Damn you to hell!

Of course, she doesn’t mean it. A dreamy smile spreads over her face, as she tightens the buckles and straps of her suit and thinks of the lovely Decanted woman. As much as it has been torture chasing Greta, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t enjoy the exquisite pain it’s brought her. She smiles as her thoughts drift to that impossible woman. She’ll have her soon. There are only a few small details to resolve, namely getting her money from Frank. Soon though, they’ll start their lives away from all this nonsense. She’s told her this many times, and Greta had smiled as she stroked her hair in her soft, gentle way that never failed to arouse her.

It’ll all go perfectly so long as Katy doesn’t... Dimi frowns at the thought of her fiancé, Katy LeoAng. That’s another of the details that are still outstanding before she and Greta can be free. Katy, that uptight, haughty bitch. That highborn geneperfect woman is as intolerable and as her body is astonishingly beautiful and lusciously desirable in every way. Dimi reminds herself she owes Katy nothing and their business is done. But despite those facts, Katy inexplicably refuses to annul their engagement, always citing some excuse or another. Dimi has been putting her nonsense off for too long. She resolves to call Katy today and get her to end things once and for all.

But before she can do something,

BEEP!

Dimi whirls, her fists raised and her foot stance wide and stable. It’s her door. She forces herself to calm down again. It isn’t even open.

BEEP!

Dimi scowls. She guesses it’s the complex manager asking for her rent again. She’s been ignoring the multiple messages and invoices sent through the network. At least, she assumes they’ve been sent to her through the network. Her com-drone broke down a week ago and she’s left it intentionally in disrepair to avoid situations like this. Dimi sneers. The manager is a nervous, wide-eyed man, whose spine largely consists of bluster and meaningless threats. Just like her father. Call his bluff and show him what a real threat of violence looks like and he’ll melt away like a stack of frozen piss. Scaring him off would be an excellent start to her day.

When her door swings open, Dimi heaves a breath to bark out,

What is it now, you shi...

Her words die in her mouth, as a completely different sight greets her. It’s the Martian police. Two of them.

Dimi Mazer? Can you confirm your ID tag identity? one of the two Martian officers says. He’s wearing