The Aetherion-Class shuttle, branded sleekly with VenusAir TransSolar Lines, shuddered and groaned as its engines roared to life, pressing Scythe hard against his seat. Through the small circular window, the soft cerulean glow of Venus's atmosphere rippled, fading into the glittering sprawl of deep space. The planet dwindled until it was just a shimmering blue coin in the infinite dark, its clouds reflecting sunlight like polished glass.
The cabin lights dimmed. Hyperspace jump commencing, the pilot's filtered voice crackled through the comms. Then the stars stretched into threads of white fire and the universe folded in on itself. Scythe clenched his jaw, gripping the armrests as light twisted into impossible colors, the entire ship humming with a bone-deep vibration that made him feel like his body was being pulled apart and reassembled a thousand times over.
When the distortion finally snapped, the cosmos reappeared—silent, sharp, and distant. Before them hung a red world, Mars, glowing like a dying ember. The screens in front of the cabin blinked with flight data: Approaching New California Orbital Gate. Prepare for descent.
Scythe exhaled slowly. New California. His father's territory. The place that had once been home before the divorce, before his mother dragged him off-world to start over in a Venusian dome suburb where the rain never stopped and the sky always smelled like ozone and rust.
The shuttle dipped into Mars's thin atmosphere, the cabin rattling as red dust streaked across the hull. Scythe watched as the automated thrusters adjusted course over the glittering expanse of Port Hargrave, a sprawling city built on iron and stubbornness, ringed by white domes and solar spires.
With a metallic groan, the ship touched down on the tarmac. The hiss of pressure equalization filled the cabin, followed by the mechanical voice of the attendant: Welcome to New California, Mars. Local temperature: negative two degrees Celsius. Please remain seated until docking procedures are complete.
Scythe unbuckled anyway. He yanked his bag from the overhead bin and started down the aisle, ignoring the chatter of other passengers—excited tourists snapping photos, a group of girls gasping at the sight of the crimson horizon through the viewport."Oh my stars, I can't believe we're really on another planet!" one squealed."It's so cool, my first time off-world!" another replied, her voice bright with wonder.
Scythe rolled his eyes. Idiots. It's just Mars, not the outer solar system. He muttered under his breath, "Fucking tourists," and pushed his way past them toward the airlock.
The hatch opened with a hiss, and the dry, iron-tinged air hit him like a slap. He squinted against the glare of the Martian sun—small and cold in the sky—and stepped onto the platform. The wind whipped fine red dust around his boots, stinging his eyes and clinging to his coat. Inside the terminal, he passed through immigration and ID scans, the walls adorned with bright holo-ads for Martian Cola, TerraWear athletic suits, and the latest Skyline AeroCruiser 3000.
Then he saw them.
His father stood near the arrivals bay, grinning like he'd just won a bar fight and a lottery in the same night. He was broader than Scythe remembered—muscle underlined by the sunburnt tan of a man who still worked despite the privilege of automation.
Scythe exhaled sharply, squared his shoulders, and approached. "Dad."
The older man waved wildly. "Son! You're looking fit as a fiddle!" he boomed, his voice echoing through the glass terminal. "Guess your mother didn't manage to turn you into some soft little Venusian poet, huh?"
Scythe's lip curled, and without a word, he flipped his father the bird. The gesture only made the man laugh harder, his booming chuckle turning a few heads. Of course, Scythe thought bitterly. The man's impervious to shame.
Then she appeared—his father's new project, apparently.
The girl darted out from behind him, nearly knocking Scythe off balance as she threw her arms around him. Her voice was bright, nervous, and impossibly cheerful. "Oh my god, Scythe! You look so—wow! I mean, hi! It's so good to finally meet you! I'm Nova! Your stepsister!"
Scythe blinked, deadpan. "No, he actually didn't mention you at all. And I can see why.*"
Her smile faltered, but she forced a small laugh anyway, tugging self-consciously at the hem of her shirt. She was wearing what looked like a rave outfit—My Chemical Romance band tee cut short, a neon-pink bra glowing beneath, and the shrotest shorts known to man.
Scythe stared for a long second before sighing. "You do realize underwear usually goes under the clothes, right?"
Nova just giggled. "It's fashion! You wouldn't understand," she said brightly, turning to their father. "Dad, tell him!"
The old man just shrugged, his grin crooked. "She wears what she wants. It's Mars, son, not some prudish Venus suburb. I stopped complaining a long time ago. They just called me an old foreigner."
"Yeah, figures," Scythe muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Can we just go? I'm tired from the flight."
As they walked toward the exit, the sunlight caught the copper skyline of New California beyond the glass dome—crimson towers, industrial haze, the faint hum of engines in the distance. Scythe stared out at it, his reflection pale and sharp in the window.
This is going to be a long damn trip.