The dust rose. The moons watched. And the last free riders of the Red Planet thundered toward the light.
A signal. The old signal. The hunt begins.
Borte’s copper braids crackled. “The nadiin in the southern caves intercepted their comms. The mercenaries have cold-weather suits, not full armor. They expect a negotiation. They do not expect a charge.”
“The caravans have broken the ice road,” she said, her voice flat. “Fifty crawlers. Three hundred mercenaries. And one Earth-bound noyan with a flag.”