I sifted through the wreckage with methodical precision.
Broken fuselages. Charred control panels. Shattered glass.
The wreckage stretched across the Martian surface like a graveyard of forgotten ambition. Rockets from every era, from every organization—each one a corpse left to rot in the red dust.
But among them, one name caught my attention.
Novacore Industries.
I stopped. My fingers hovered over the rusted metal plating of an old module, my breath caught somewhere between disbelief and something much colder.
Novacore.
A name I hadn't thought about in years.
A name tied to a past I had long since buried.
My father's company.
The company that had disappeared before he did.
My hand tightened into a fist before I forced it to relax. I exhaled sharply, activating Database Scan.
The system whirred to life, feeding me information in clean, structured lines.
Novacore Industries
Status: Defunct
Years Active: 32 (Shut Down: ██/██/████)
Field: Experimental System Research & Innovation
Primary Goal: Integration and control of the global skill system. Advancement of human potential through direct manipulation of skill acquisition and development.
Notable Projects: [DATA REDACTED]
I frowned.
Of course. Redacted.
Even now, even on another planet, they were still keeping secrets.
I already knew the rumors.
Novacore had been founded on ambition.
Unlike the corporations that played within the system's rules—training workers, developing industries—Novacore had sought to control the system itself.
Skill manipulation.
Creation. Erasure. Modification.
To shape humanity's abilities on demand.
People had called them visionaries. Others had called them insane.
And when their experiments had gone too far—when questions had begun to surface about the ethics of what they were doing—the world had turned against them.
Their facilities were raided. Their research was shut down. Their executives either disappeared or were silenced.
And my father—
He had walked away.
Abandoning Novacore.
Abandoning me.
I exhaled sharply, pushing the memories aside. This wasn't the time.
I was still missing pieces.
The World President. The Masked Syndicate. The failed rockets. Novacore.
All of it connected.
But how?
The only thing I knew for sure was this: Novacore had sent a rocket here.
And if they had sent one…
Had they found something?
I clenched my jaw and continued my search.
I picked through the wreckage, searching for anything I could use. Most of it was scrap—torn metal, corroded panels, shattered circuitry.
But some things?
Some things had survived.
CO₂ scrubbers.
A small, intact module buried beneath the remains of an old air filtration system. A lifeline. My ship's oxygen generator had been damaged in the crash, leaving the air inside the cabin slowly growing toxic. With these, I could filter out the excess carbon dioxide, buying myself time.
I secured the scrubbers, moving deeper into the wreckage.
Aluminum patches.
Torn plating from old spacecraft hulls. If I melted them down, I could reinforce the ship's structure—seal the breaches, patch the weak points.
Sealed food and water reserves.
Inside the less-rusted rockets, I found tightly packed survival kits—meant for crews that never got the chance to use them. The water had long since frozen, but it was salvageable.
Fuel reserves.
My heart nearly stopped when I found them.
Strapped inside an overturned module, buried beneath layers of dust, were canisters of fuel. Some were empty. Others were old, their seals rusted. But a few?
A few were still viable.
I grabbed as much as I could carry and started the long trek back to my ship.
The walk back was slow, my suit's servos compensating for the extra weight. Each step was careful, measured.
The red dunes stretched endlessly before me, Mars' thin atmosphere casting a dull haze over the horizon.
As I walked, I activated Database Scan once more—this time, focusing on my own situation.
A string of calculations appeared. Orbital mechanics. Flight trajectories. Return windows.
Then—
Hohmann Transfer Orbit: In Progress
My stomach tightened.
A Hohmann transfer orbit meant that, from the moment I landed, I had exactly one month before my launch window closed.
If I didn't leave in time, I would have to wait for the next window.
I checked the time remaining.
Time Until Next Transfer Window: 26 Months
I stopped walking.
Cold realization settled in.
Fifteen days.
That was how much time I had left before I lost my only chance of returning home.
If I didn't fix my ship in the next fifteen days—if I didn't get everything operational—
I wouldn't have to worry about oxygen or food.
Because I'd be dead long before the next launch window opened.
I exhaled slowly, steadying my breath.
No time for hesitation.
I had work to do.
By the time I reached my ship, my body ached. Every muscle screamed from exhaustion, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
I climbed up the side of the battered hull, securing my equipment before slipping through the hatch.
The air inside was stale. Heavy.
The CO₂ levels were rising.
I pulled out the CO₂ scrubbers and got to work using my skills and database as instructions.
Step 1: Replace the Filters
The old scrubbers were damaged beyond repair, their internal systems fried from the crash. I pried them loose, setting them aside before installing the new ones.
Step 2: Reconnect the Airflow System
The ship's oxygen generator was still functional but unstable. I reconfigured the tubing, ensuring the new scrubbers would filter out excess CO₂ without compromising the remaining oxygen supply.
Step 3: Power Test
I flipped the switch.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—
A low hum. A whirr of machinery.
And a clearer reading on my oxygen levels.
I exhaled. Good.
One problem solved.
I sat back, checking the next issue.
Oxygen System → Stable.
Food & Water Reserves → Extended.
Fuel Reserves → Limited, but Viable.
Navigation System → Moderate Repairs Required.
Structural Damage → Major Repairs Required.
Right Booster → Completely Inoperable.
I leaned back, exhaling.
Fifteen days.
That was all I had.
I glanced at the twisted wreckage of the right booster. Even with the aluminum patches, even with everything I had gathered, I wasn't sure if I could fully repair it.
Which meant one thing.
I needed more.
More supplies. More fuel. More materials.
More time.
But time wasn't something I had.
I ran a hand down my face, staring at the flickering control panel.
They had sent me here to die.
I had survived.
And now?
Now, I was going to leave.
I didn't care if I had to rip this ship apart and rebuild it with my bare hands.
I was not staying on this planet for another twenty-six months.
Fifteen days.
That was all the time I had.
And I wasn't wasting a second.