Chapter 1
The potato hit the ceiling at 47 miles per hour.
Section 12, Subsection C of the Gaus Corporation Employee Handbook clearly states: “Projectile equipment is prohibited in recreation areas.” Kang Do-yun had quoted it exactly 47 seconds before the potato cannon fired. No one had listened.
Now he stood in the doorway of Recreation Bay 3, watching the aftermath in precisely the way the Handbook did not cover: with his heart pounding and his brother’s voice echoing in his head.
Lighten up, Do-yun-ah. The rules aren’t real.
“I’m logging everyone,” Jang Mi-ri said from behind him. Her voice was flat, professional—the tone of someone who had logged far worse things than unauthorized tuber-based projectiles. “Engineering diverted 3.7 percent of their oxygen quota to build the cannon. That’s a Class 2 infraction. Minimum.”
Do-yun turned. Mi-ri stood with her tablet angled toward the chaos, her face a smooth stone. No cracks. Twenty-six months on Mars, and Do-yun had never seen her smile. He’d never seen her do anything except monitor, log, and occasionally speak in complete sentences that sounded like they’d been generated by the base AI.
“The Handbook,” Do-yun began, “Section 14, Subsection—”
“I know the sections.” Mi-ri’s eyes didn’t leave her screen. “I know all of them.”
The potato had struck a light fixture. The fixture had shattered. Glass fragments now drifted through the low gravity like slow-motion snow, catching the emergency lights that had automatically activated when the impact triggered the alarms. The alarms themselves were still screaming—a high, rhythmic pulse that Do-yun had learned to tune out during his first week on Mars but that now drilled into his skull with particular urgency.
Three engineers were floating near the ceiling, trying to catch glass fragments before they drifted into air intakes. Two more were arguing about whose idea the cannon had been. One was crying—a young woman, maybe twenty-three, whom Do-yun recognized from Life Support. She kept saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” over and over.
Lighten up.
Do-yun pressed his hands flat against his thighs. The tremor traveled up his arms anyway.
Eleven years ago, another room. Another alarm. Another person saying sorry.
His brother hadn’t been sorry. His brother had been dead.
“The oxygen diversion,” Do-yun said, forcing his voice level. “Was it transferred or stolen?”
Mi-ri glanced at him—a flicker of something that might have been surprise. “Transferred. Unofficially. Engineering logged it as ‘testing equipment.’ Life Support signed off without checking.”
“Then it’s a paperwork violation, not theft.” Do-yun was already calculating. “Section 9, Subsection B allows for resource reallocation with proper documentation. If the documentation exists—”
“The documentation exists. It’s just wrong.” Mi-ri’s tablet pinged. “I’ve flagged it. Earth will receive the notification in—” she checked—“seventeen minutes. They’ll reply immediately. We’ll get it in thirty-seven.”
She said this without judgment. It was simply how things worked on Mars. The 20-minute lag meant Earth was always slightly behind, always reacting to situations that had already resolved themselves. By the time HQ understood there’d been a potato cannon, the potato would be compost and the cannon would be scrap.
Do-yun had memorized this fact. He had not internalized it.
“Someone should supervise the cleanup,” he said.
“Someone is.” Mi-ri nodded toward the far corner.
Yoon Seo-jin stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching the engineers flail. She wasn’t helping. She wasn’t leaving. She was simply observing, her expression a careful blend of disgust and disinterest that Do-yun had come to recognize as her default setting.
Eighteen months on Mars. Eighteen months of Seo-jin saying exactly what she meant and nothing more. Eighteen months of her never once looking at him like he was anything other than a colleague she tolerated.
Do-yun didn’t know why this bothered him. It wasn’t in the Handbook.
Seo-jin caught him looking. Raised an eyebrow. Do-yun looked away.
“The crying one,” Mi-ri said quietly. “Lee Soo-jin. Twenty-three. First Mars assignment. She signed the transfer form without reading it. Engineering told her it was routine.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’ll need it for your report.” Mi-ri finally looked up from her tablet. “You’re going to write one. You always write one. And you’ll want to know that she’s not malicious—just young and stupid and scared of being sent home.”
Do-yun stared at her. “How did you—”
“I monitor everyone.” Mi-ri’s expression didn’t change. “Caffeine intake. Sleep patterns. Stress markers. Reporting tendencies. You write 847 words per report, exactly. You use black ink for facts, blue for questions, and red for emotional responses you’d never admit to. You’ve written 47 reports since arriving. I’ve read all of them.”
The alarms stopped.
In the sudden silence, Do-yun heard his own heartbeat. It was loud. Too loud.
“Why?” he managed.
Mi-ri tilted her head—the closest she came to expressing curiosity. “Because if I know everything, no one dies.”
She walked away before he could respond. Her footsteps made almost no sound in the low gravity—just soft thuds, slightly too far apart, like a person learning to walk on the moon.
Do-yun watched her go. Then he watched Seo-jin push off from the wall and drift toward the crying engineer. Seo-jin didn’t touch her. Didn’t speak. Just floated nearby, present, waiting. After a moment, the crying slowed. The engineer wiped her face. Seo-jin handed her a cloth from her pocket—where had she gotten a cloth?—and gestured toward the door.
They left together. The engineers kept catching glass.
Do-yun stood alone in the doorway, hands still pressed against his thighs, heart rate slowly returning to normal.
Lighten up.
He couldn’t. He’d tried. For eleven years, he’d tried.
The Handbook was in his quarters, under his pillow, where it always was. Eight hundred forty-seven pages of rules that told him exactly what to do. Section 12, Subsection C: Projectile equipment is prohibited in recreation areas. He’d quoted it. No one had listened.
But no one had died either.
So maybe the rules weren’t the point. Or maybe they were, and he was the only one who understood.
Do-yun didn’t know which possibility was worse.
At 14:47, Earth’s reply arrived.
Thirty-seven minutes after Mi-ri’s flag. Thirty-seven minutes after the glass had been cleaned, the engineers reassigned, and Lee Soo-jin safely returned to her quarters with a cup of tea that Seo-jin had somehow produced from nowhere.
The message was 147 words long. It contained seventeen questions, just as Mi-ri had predicted. It also contained a directive: All personnel involved in the unauthorized projectile incident are to be placed on probation pending further review. Submit names within 24 hours.
Byung-hoon read it aloud in the common area. His voice was tired—the tiredness of a man who had spent thirty months on Mars and twelve years not speaking to his daughter. “They want names,” he concluded. “They want someone to blame.”
No one spoke.
The common area was empty except for Marketing Team 3. Byung-hoon at the head of the table. Seo-jin in the corner, pretending to read. Mi-ri at her usual station, tablet between her and the world. Do-yun with his notebook open, black ink ready, blue ink ready, red ink untouched in his pocket.
On the roster, a fourth name: Jung Chan-woo. Three months assigned to Mars. Not yet arrived.
“They want names,” Byung-hoon repeated. “We have 24 hours to provide them.”
“The engineers,” Seo-jin offered. “They built the cannon.”
Byung-hoon looked up. “The engineers who keep our life support running? The engineers who fixed the oxygen regulator last week when it failed at 3 AM? Those engineers?”
Byung-hoon rubbed his temples. “Seo-jin’s right. We can’t sacrifice Engineering. They’re essential.”
“So we lie.”
“We don’t lie.” Do-yun surprised himself by speaking. Everyone looked at him. “We report the facts. The oxygen was transferred with documentation. The documentation was incorrect, but it existed. No one stole anything. No one endangered the base. A potato hit a light. That’s all.”
Seo-jin studied him. “That’s not all and you know it.”
“What else is there?”
“The fact that they did it in the first place. The fact that they used resources for fun instead of survival. The fact that someone could have been hurt.” Seo-jin leaned forward. “You’re the Handbook guy. Isn’t that what the Handbook says? Rules exist for a reason. Break them, face consequences.”
Do-yun’s hand tightened on his pen. “The Handbook says—”
“I know what it says.” Seo-jin’s voice sharpened. “I’ve been here eighteen months. I’ve watched you annotate it in three colors. I’ve watched you sleep with it under your pillow. You think rules protect people. They don’t. They just give you someone to blame when things go wrong.”
The words hung in the air.
Do-yun felt something crack. Just slightly. Just enough.
“My brother,” he began, then stopped. Shook his head. “Never mind.”
Seo-jin’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother?”
“Later.” Do-yun looked away. “Not now.”
The silence stretched. Byung-hoon set down the message from Earth. “We have 24 hours. Let’s use them.”
He stood. Walked to the door. Paused.
“I don’t know what the right answer is,” he said without turning. “I don’t know if we protect the engineers or follow the rules or do something in between. But I know we figure it out together. That’s what teams do.”
He left.
Seo-jin stared at the door for a long moment. Then she looked at Do-yun. Her eyes were unreadable—but something in them had shifted. Softened, maybe. Or just... seen.
“You started to say something. About your brother.”
Do-yun shook his head. “Not today.”
She nodded. Didn’t push. “I’m going to check on Soo-jin. The engineer. The one who was crying.” She paused at the door. “Do-yun?”
“Yes?”
“Whatever it is. Whenever you’re ready.” She left.
Do-yun sat alone with his notebook. Black ink for facts. Blue ink for questions. Red ink untouched in his pocket.
He wrote nothing. Closed the notebook. Went to find Mi-ri.
She was in the observation dome, watching Earth rise. It was 15:30—not a standard time for Earth-gazing. But Mi-ri didn’t do standard.
“You knew,” Do-yun said. “About Chan-woo’s father. About the Himalayan air.”
Mi-ri didn’t turn. “I know everything.”
“That’s not possible.”
“It’s possible if you monitor correctly.” She paused. “I know you’re here because you want to ask about the report. Whether we should protect the engineers. Whether the rules matter.”
Do-yun’s breath caught. “That’s—”
“That’s what you think about every time something reminds you of him.” Mi-ri’s voice was calm. “The alarms. The crying. The moment when someone almost gets hurt.”
Do-yun couldn’t speak.
“I don’t know the answer,” Mi-ri continued. “I don’t know if the three people I lost would be alive if I’d monitored better. I don’t know anything except that I monitor now. Every variable. Every risk. Every person.”
She turned. In the blue light of Earth-reflection, her face looked almost human.
“Lee Soo-jin’s heart rate is 68 now. Normal for her. She’s sleeping. She’ll be fine. The engineers have been reassigned to day shift for the next week—not punishment, just rotation. Seo-jin is in her quarters, talking to her succulent.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you need to know that no one died today. No one got hurt. A potato hit a ceiling. That’s all.” She looked back at Earth. “The report can say whatever you want. It won’t change what happened. It won’t change what didn’t happen.”
Do-yun stood beside her. Watched Earth rise. 40 million miles away. 20 minutes of lag between here and there.
“You monitor everyone,” he said. “Do you monitor yourself?”
Mi-ri was quiet for a long moment.
“My heart rate is 72,” she said finally. “My sleep deficit is 14 hours. My stress markers are elevated but within acceptable parameters. I haven’t smiled in 26 months.”
“That’s not monitoring. That’s—”
“That’s all I have.” She cut him off gently. “That’s all I’m willing to have.”
They watched Earth in silence.
After a while, Do-yun said: “I’ll write the report. I’ll protect the engineers. I’ll follow the rules that matter and find a way around the ones that don’t.”
Mi-ri nodded. “I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what people do when they care more about people than protocols.” She glanced at him. “You care more than you admit. That’s why you write poetry.”
Do-yun’s heart stopped. “How do you—”
“I monitor everything.” For the first time, something that might have been warmth flickered across her face. “Your poetry is terrible, by the way. But it’s real.”
She left him there, alone with Earth and the truth.
Do-yun pulled out his notebook. Turned to a fresh page. Wrote:
Yoon Seo-jin: eyes warmed when she left.
Jang Mi-ri: knows about the poetry. Hasn’t told anyone.
Song Byung-hoon: said “together” instead of “I don’t know.”
Lee Soo-jin: safe. Asleep. Alive.
He stared at the words. Then he wrote, in red ink for the first time in eleven years:
Today, no one died.
He closed the notebook. Watched Earth set behind the Martian horizon. Thought about his brother.
Lighten up, Do-yun-ah.
“I’m trying,” he whispered. “I’m trying.”
The lag carried his words nowhere. But on Mars, 40 million miles from anyone who mattered, that was almost the same as being heard.
