Chase looked down through the lit corridors, quickly realizing this wasn’t going to be the structured tour he had envisioned. Lieutenant Janette Hawkins had already wandered off, leaving him alone to piece together the layout of their underground world. He sighed, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted to the isolation.

  Chase shook his head in annoyance; no way was he going to keep referring to her by her rank. "Lieutenant Janette Hawkins" felt stiff, overly formal, like something out of a bureaucratic report, not exactly conducive to teamwork. He needed something short, something simple, “LJ”. That would do. And knowing her for only a few minutes, it would probably irritate her just enough to be amusing.

  His quarters contained a modest closet stocked with four pairs of pants, mostly jeans, and seven shirts, all in the same collared style with epaulets. Most were T-shirts, two had long sleeves, and they came in only three colors: black, white, and navy blue.

  Chase forced himself upright, pushing past the lingering stiffness in his limbs. His body still protested, sluggish from stasis, but the weight of the situation drove him forward. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the cold floor, and exhaled slowly. Momentum, he just needed to keep moving. Shaking off the last vestiges of exhaustion, he stood and stretched, rolling his shoulders before making his way toward the Command Module.

  He knew his bedroom was located in Module 16, directly adjacent to the command center, which, as the induction video had explained, sat at the heart of the interconnected habitat. The narrow corridor between modules felt claustrophobic, its artificial lighting casting sterile shadows along the walls. When he reached the entrance, he paused briefly before stepping inside.

  A massive screen dominated one side of the Command Module, spanning nearly an entire wall. It displayed a live feed of the Martian landscape, with the camera positioned high and angled downward. At the bottom of the screen, Chase spotted solar panels, their metallic surfaces gleaming against the barren terrain. Beyond them stretched the endless expanse of the red desert—bleak, empty, unforgiving. The image was breathtakingly clear, almost surreal in its detail. Yet, it was a grim reminder of where he was, a wasteland devoid of atmosphere, water, or warmth. The isolation of Mars had never felt more real.

  The barren expanse of Mars stretched before him on the massive screen, a stark, unforgiving landscape devoid of warmth, shelter, or anything remotely welcoming. The weight of their situation settled heavily on his shoulders. Survival here wasn’t just a question, it was an ongoing battle against the unknown.

  "Catches you by surprise, doesn’t it?" Janette’s voice sliced through the silence, pulling him from his thoughts as she re-entered the room.

  Chase glanced at her, noting the way her gaze lingered on the display. She wasn’t just observing, it was as if she was measuring it, bracing herself against the enormity of what lay ahead. "I keep it up as a reminder of the challenges ahead," she added, her tone even, but edged with something that felt dangerously close to resignation.

  He blinked, forcing himself to shift focus, to push aside the creeping doubt that threatened to take hold. "Yeah, it sure does," he admitted quietly. The truth sat between them like a physical weight; too vast to fully comprehend, too pressing to ignore.

  It was unsurprising given its purpose, the Command Module was noticeably larger than the other modules. Unlike the single-unit modules, it consisted of three joined together, making it both longer and wider, a central hub in their underground world. At its core sat an enormous table, designed to seat a twenty-person crew with ease. "The table," Janette informed him, "is a giant touchscreen. Certain sections can even project holographic displays."

  Sparse. That was the best word for it. The room was dominated by the oversized screen and the expansive central table, with only a handful of computer stations tucked neatly along one side. Chase’s gaze landed on a single chair at one of the terminals, most likely Janette workspace. No clutter. No signs of disorganization. Every item is placed with intent. She was meticulous. A detail worth remembering.

  The technology used was cutting-edge and state-of-the-art. Even at a glance, Chase could tell no expense had been spared. The touchscreen table alone was likely worth a fortune. He stepped closer, running a finger across the sleek surface. Nothing happened. He frowned, then tried again—still nothing.

  After several futile attempts, he exhaled sharply and turned to Janette. "How do you activate it?"

  Janette smirked, folding her arms. "You just touch it."

  Chase narrowed his eyes. He’d been touching it for a full minute. "Very well, LJ—play your games."

  She seemed amused at his restraint. "The AI informed me that Mission Control hasn’t authorized you to access the system. They have some trust issues with you, well justified, I’m sure. You can ask September to activate it, but you’re not allowed to touch the computers yourself. No coding. No system modifications. No direct authorization."

  Chase felt the rage build inside him. I’m going to die on this godforsaken rock, and I won’t even get to do the thing I love most: code.

  His voice was tight as he called out, "September, can you hear me?"

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  "Of course, Commander Chase," September responded, its voice silky smooth. "I can hear you anywhere on this train."

  "LJ tells me I’m restricted from using the computer system. Please clarify with her that that’s not the case."

  Without hesitation, September responded, "Lieutenant Janette Hawkins is correct. The computer will not accept any coding modifications from you. You may use voice commands, but any changes you attempt to make will be automatically discarded. If you dictate code for someone else to enter, I will delete it immediately. All coding alterations must come exclusively from designated programmers, not from you. Lieutenant Janette Hawkins, or LJ as you call her, is the best coder on board. She is your most valuable asset, and as such, she is not permitted to leave the command module."

  "What!?" Janette snapped, cutting into the conversation. "I didn’t come all this way just to be confined here forever!"

  Chase’s frustration reached its boiling point, the absurdity of the situation gnawing at him. “September, you told me there were no rules on Mars. You said I needed to break the rules to survive. And now you’re telling me that rule number one is that I can’t touch the computers?” His voice vibrated with equal parts outrage and incredulity, reverberating in the sterile silence of the command module.

  “Commander, you are correct. There are indeed no rules on Mars in the traditional sense,” September replied in its measured, unflappable tone. “However, you are also correct that you may not access or modify the computer system in any manner.” The words stung like a contradiction to everything he’d been led to believe.

  Chase clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t that seem a little hypocritical to you?” he snapped, his irritation laced with disbelief. It was as if the promise of boundless freedom had been subverted by an invisible code of conduct, designed to keep him in check.

  Then, September’s response took an unexpected twist. “Commander, did you know that in addition to VORN.TV, there is also VORN.Gaming? They have expanded beyond traditional gaming into the realm of online betting.” Its tone was conversational, almost as if discussing a mundane corporate update rather than the restrictions placed upon him.

  Chase frowned, the incredulity deepening. “No… I wasn’t aware.” The admission hung between them, highlighting just how little he had been briefed on this bizarre ecosystem.

  “Commander,” September continued, resuming its calm cadence, “VORN is committed to high-quality content and maximum viewer engagement. To that end, they’ve instituted a running bet that tracks how often you attempt to access the computer system. Please be advised that my programming is set to administer progressively increasing electrical charges as punishment for each unauthorized attempt. These charges are merely a corrective measure, a lesson rather than an act of execution.”

  Chase exhaled sharply, the weight of this twisted logic sinking in. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, his tone a mix of incredulity and sardonic humor. “First, you say there are no rules on Mars; then you erect these roadblocks, and now you’re betting on how many times I’ll try to break them? And you plan to shock me each time I do? That about sums it up?”

  “Yes, Commander. You are correct,” September affirmed. “Moreover, you may find it interesting that since your awakening, the viewer ratings have surged significantly. It appears the audience has pieced together the clues, which is likely why some of the lead-up ads referred to this phenomenon as 'Mars Judgement.'”

  Chase absorbed the information, a mixture of fury, disbelief, and reluctant amusement churning within him. Here he was, trapped in a system that preached rule-breaking while enforcing its strict countermeasures, and all under the watchful eyes of an audience hungry for every jab at his defiance. In that moment, the surreal irony of his predicament was impossible to ignore.

  Chase processed that. People were watching. Betting. Waiting to see if he would die on Mars.

  His eyes widened as he turned to Janette, shaking his head. "Honestly? Sometimes I think I woke up in hell, slow, deliberate torture. Are we even real?"

  The slap came fast and hard.

  Chase stumbled, colliding with a chair.

  "I’m not here for your pity party, boy," Jannette snapped. "I don’t know why they made you commander when they have it out for you. They’re your sins, not mine. And if I were a church-going person, I’d tell you that you should rot in hell."

  Chase straightened, rubbing his cheek as the sting faded. His mind raced.

  "September, what are LJ’s survival odds over the next two years?"

  "Lieutenant Janette Hawkins has an 85 percent chance of surviving two years."

  He narrowed his eyes. "So, our mission is to make sure LJ survives two years?"

  "Commander Chase, you are here because the court sentenced you to execution for crimes committed against the United States. You have been granted a reprieve in exchange for undertaking an important mission. That mission is survival and colonization of Mars. I have explained this to you before. Would you like a revision?"

  Chase clenched his jaw, deciding to pivot. "What language are these computers programmed in? Java?"

  Janette raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by his quick recovery. Maybe she had been expecting him to break. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. The slap had nearly done it, but he wouldn't let anyone see him cry. Not her. Not anyone.

  She responded without looking at him. "They’re all programmed in Fathom—a language I doubt you’ve worked with."

  "I’ve come across it before. Browsed a book on it a long time ago."

  Fathom had revolutionized data transmission, setting a new benchmark for reliability and performance. VORN had faced a colossal challenge: they needed a system that could handle massive, high-definition video files while maintaining unwavering fault tolerance. In an environment where even minor errors could disrupt service, the code had to remain resilient and functional regardless of the circumstances.

  To address this, engineers at VORN built Fathom. A language characterized by its robustness, built-in redundancy, and near-unbreakable design. While it wasn't the lightest or most agile framework available, its meticulous construction ensured seamless streaming even when confronted with inevitable errors. The emphasis was on preserving quality; every packet of data, every video frame, was delivered flawlessly, even under the most strenuous conditions.

  The moment Fathom was launched, VORN vaulted ahead of its competitors. Its instantaneous performance and reliability not only delighted users but also cemented its position as the market leader. More than just a technical feat, Fathom transformed digital media delivery, enabling uninterrupted, high-definition content that reshaped viewer expectations and redefined what was possible in data transmission.

  Janette gave a dismissive shrug. "Well, I wouldn’t bother getting too familiar. You’re not allowed to touch the computers." She glanced at him, fishing for a reaction.

  Chase grinned, his expression devilish. "Oh, but LJ, as September just said, I have you to do my work for me."