The Gangs of Mars

The Martian sky was a canvas of crimson and ochre.

 Commander Kael stood outside the fortified walls of Base Alpha-7. The once-thriving colony now resembled a fortress, its towering structures scarred by the relentless assaults of the Swarm. The insectoid species, once peaceful, had turned hostile.

Kael's gaze shifted to the horizon, where the remnants of a recent battle smoldered. The Union's forces had suffered significant losses, and the Swarm's mutations were evolving at an alarming rate. The cause of this aggression remained a mystery.

Base Alpha-7 once hummed with the optimism of humanity’s future. Now it lay cold and twisted, a grave marker in the endless Martian dusk.

Kael knelt in its shadow, fingers brushing against the dirt. 

“Commander,” came a voice through his neural link. Lieutenant Yara’s tone was clipped. “Orbital scan shows movement. About six klicks west. Heavy signature—might be a driller.”

Kael stood, his exo-armor grinding softly. Sand hissed off the servos. “Could be. Or it’s another one of Redrog’s decoys.”

The Redrogs—a vicious band of bloodthirsty outlaws that had defected from the Union; they had taken to using the chaos of war as cover for their own sinister, savage machinations. Few knew the full strength of their forces. Even fewer knew their plans.

  “We’re low on cores. If it’s real—”

“Then we take it.” Kael looked back at the remnants of their camp. A dozen battered troopers, a makeshift generator, and one badly patched biodome that filtered more radiation than oxygen. “Rally the unit.”

As the team mobilized, Kael ran diagnostics on his gear. Everything screamed marginal: power at 28%, shielding flickering, pulse rifle taped together with smart-adhesive. But failure wasn’t a luxury he could afford—not on Mars. Not in this war.

The mission was simple: steal the driller, extract its core, and keep the dream alive for one more week.

They reached the rise above the target zone just as the sun dipped below Olympus Mons, painting the sky blood-orange. Below, the driller stood, half-buried, its dig claws still warm with geothermal heat. But something was off.

“No guards?” Yara whispered.

“Too easy,” Kael murmured, and then—he saw them. Not guards. Not humans.

Synths.

Dozens of them, faceless chrome under sand-slicked armor. The telltale hum of Redrog’s proprietary AI echoing across the plain. They moved with eerie precision, circling the driller like ants defending a queen.

“Intel was wrong,” Yara hissed.

“It was bait,” Kael replied, his stomach sinking.

From behind, gunfire ripped through the silence. Kael ducked, rolled, came up firing. A flash of plasma lit up the ridge. One of his men—Tomas—was already down, armor slagged.

Kael’s neural link flooded with noise. “Ambush! We’re surrounded!”

He didn’t hesitate. “Fall back to B-4. Cover each other. Go!”

As his team scattered, Kael stayed behind, drawing fire, every round he loosed buying his people precious seconds.

In the chaos—the screams of soldiers, and the shrieking of synths around him like a discordant nightmare—Yara came through the neural link again, her voice spiked with desperate panic and disbelief.

“Commander… I… can’t be… sensing Swarm movement! Swarm coming up from the drill!"

“From the drill!?” Kael shouted. It made no sense. It was impossible. “Are the bastards digging them up!?”

“They’re… everywhere…”

“Transmit to the orbitals—call down the Mecha Units! Call them do—!”

A synth charged him. He ducked under its blade, rammed a grenade into its chest, and kicked it back toward its brothers.

Boom.

The shockwave knocked him flat. Red dust filled his lungs, his visor cracked, HUD flickering. He tried to rise—legs screamed. Pain lanced through his spine.

Then: silence.

A shape loomed above him. Synth? No.

Human.

The armor was ragged, decorated with spikes, barbs, blood, and teeth, marked with the Redrog sigil. The figure removed their helmet. A woman’s face. Sharp. Familiar.

“Hello, Kael,” she said.

His blood froze.

“Syl—? You’re dead. I saw the crash—”

“Reports of my death,” she said, kneeling, “were greatly exaggerated.”

His old squadmate. His sister-in-arms. His traitor.

“You sold out,” he growled.

“I bought in,” she replied. “There’s a difference.”

Somewhere out of sight, the driller rumbled to life, guided by Synth hands—circled by an impossibly obedient Swarm, that flooded upward as if a leak were sprung in the sand. “Redrog doesn’t want war anymore, Kael. They want control. And they’re going to get it. Join us.”

He spat blood.

“I’d rather die.”

She sighed, stood, and turned away.

“On Mars” she said, “anything can be arranged.”