Chapter 6 - Neela
My brother is worried. Everything about his stance says so. And honestly? I get it. Prax—because that’s his name—is dangerous. His appearance says it, his size shouts it… not to mention the weapon I found in the waterproof bag he had with him.
When I went back to the site of his crash, the ice had completely reformed, covering the impact point for good. I wandered across the lake, gathering the scattered remains of his vehicle, tracing a path across the white surface. All the way to this tiny rock, barely sticking out of the snow.
What would’ve happened if that rock hadn’t been there? He probably would’ve crashed into the mountainside a few dozen yards further. But who really knows?
Near that little island where I pulled Prax out, I found the waterproof bag. It was almost invisible, nearly buried in snow. I brought it home, and—naturally—curiosity got the better of me.
Inside, I found what looked like a medical emergency kit. Fascinating, yes, but completely useless to me, since I had no clue how any of it was supposed to work. There was also a long, insulated, waterproof bag, a tablet I couldn’t power on, some vacuum-sealed protein bars, and… a weapon.
On Mars, weapons are forbidden. That’s clearly stated in the Pact. Owning one implies being willing to use it, and therefore willing to harm another life.
We just don’t have them. The rare fights that break out are settled with bare hands. But no one ever needs to take a life.
Prax’s weapon terrifies me. So much so that I didn’t even tell Kiran about it. My brother would completely lose it if he knew. He’s already wound up tight over me housing the cat-man. No need to hand him more reasons to freak out.
But he’s right about the practical issues this “cohabitation” is going to cause.
First: I no longer sleep in my bed, but on the couch, and it’s not exactly restful.
Second: if I share my little crop yields with him, we’ll run out of food fast. And as Kiran pointed out, getting extra rations is not an option.
Third: we know nothing about him—his species, his goals, his stance on our community. He doesn’t seem threatening, but I’m not na?ve. This man is dangerous.
And finally… Kiran isn’t wrong about how unsettling this guy’s presence is. Even while he was unconscious, his sculpted body did things to my brain I wasn’t ready for.
Sure, no one in our community is overweight—rationed food takes care of that. And we’re all healthy, thanks to the constant nudging to exercise.
But Prax? He’s on a different level.
And this morning… when he woke up… I lost it a little.
I was working quietly in my hydroponic garden, harvesting some radishes and sowing new ones, when I caught movement through the wall. By the time I dropped the veggies in the kitchen and circled around to my room, he was already in the bathroom.
Without thinking, I barged in to explain how the toilet and shower work. Thank the moons he wasn’t using the toilet, or I would’ve died of embarrassment on the spot!
But honestly? Seeing him in the shower was barely less mortifying.
He stood there—naked, solid, regal—in my tiny stall, and locked those blazing golden eyes on mine. And when I say golden, I mean the actual color, not the expression. His expression was murderously black. I was bothering him.
I grabbed the nearest towel and started rambling nonsense like it was totally normal to be in the bathroom with a naked alien.
Like he could even understand a word I was saying.
“You listening?” Kiran snaps, frowning.
“Of course I’m listening. I’m not deaf.”
“Oh yeah? Then what was I saying?”
Crap. Busted. He totally got me. But I can bluff this.
“You were listing all your worries—again—without offering a single solution.”
“Neela…”
“Look, everything’s fine. It’s Friday. Tomorrow’s the weekend.
Next week, sweet Meghan and I will be working, and you’ll be watching Sanjay.
Just do what you always do with him, and don’t stress out.
Prax will stay here, and I’m pretty sure he won’t cause any trouble.
And no, you are not dropping by to check on him while you’ve got the kid. So, that’s settled.”
But my brother is still tense, staring out through the fully transparent front wall, into the calm of the snow-covered forest.
“Something else on your mind?” I ask softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
I know Kiran inside and out. If he’s hiding something, I’ll know. It’s not Sanjay—he’s healthy, and I’m his doctor. It’s not Meghan either. So, it must be about Kiran himself… or the Palace.
“You okay?” I can’t help asking.
He knows me too well to dodge.
“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m fine. My little family’s fine too.”
“Then spill it.”
He runs a hand through his dark hair and finally admits, “Neela… I think the Palace has violated the Pact again.”
I relax slightly. Oh, that again. It's not exactly a shock. The Palace has been pushing boundaries for months now.
“No really,” he presses, “Esteban and I found several weapons in a private room a few weeks back. And now we know they’ve been used.”
“What?! Don’t be ridiculous. Printing weapons is bad enough. You’re telling me they used them?”
“Neela… they’re killing animals. To eat them.”
Silence crashes between us. If he’s right, this is huge. It means Vassili—and maybe his inner circle—have broken the very first law of the Pact. Taking a life needlessly is the one rule we never break.
What does that mean for us, for our entire community? Nothing good. We’ve suspected for a while that Vassili Porkoff, self-proclaimed “Regent,” has been crossing lines. This just proves it. And if they’re willing to kill animals, how long before they start targeting people?
“You’re sure?” I ask, though I already know.
“Absolutely. I didn’t want to burden you, not while you’re dealing with the stranger. But I found a ram’s head next to the Palace incinerator.”
I’m stunned. We have rabbits and rodents around sometimes, but they know they’re safe near us. Rams, though? They live higher up the mountain. That means the Palace sent an armed expedition—specifically to hunt.
And let’s be honest—we know our ancestors used to eat meat and animal products. It was part of being human: eat to survive, kill or be killed.
But it stopped being about survival and turned into something darker. Killing for pleasure. For control. Without restraint.
Humanity wiped out nearly all life on Earth—including itself. Without the Confederation, there wouldn’t have been a second chance.
So yes, life on Mars is tough. Much harder than it was on Earth. But we’re alive. And even though we’ve lost some freedoms, they help keep balance here. And now, Vassili’s spitting on the Pact, starting with its first rule. What’s next?
“I need to go to the Palace,” I finally say.
“Do what?” Kiran asks, alarmed.
“Investigate. I have an idea.”
“I hate how you said that.”
“Is Esteban on maintenance duty next week?”
“Yeah. Why?”
I go to my medical herb stash. What I’m about to do isn’t ethical… but this is serious.
“Here—two vials,” I tell him. “Give them to Esteban. He’ll pour them into the midday soup. It kicks in after a few hours.”
“What’s in them?” he asks warily.
“The first is a natural laxative. It’ll have everyone glued to the toilet all afternoon.”
“And the second?”
“A mild sedative. They’ll be drowsy, less alert. Esteban needs to call me in as soon as symptoms show.”
“Perfect! We’ll make it look like an outbreak. I’ll ask Francine and Armand to fake it too, really sell the story.”
“Smart. I’ll stay at the Cydonia medical unit so I can get there fast.”
“Great. Esteban will escort you through the Palace. We’ll plan it for one of your shifts. I just need to check the menu and brief everyone.”
We go over a few more details before Kiran finally heads back to his unit. He hates being idle, and now that we’ve got a plan, he seems more at peace.
Back inside, I listen. No sound—Prax must still be asleep. Perfect. I fetch a bucket of snow and start melting it to warm.
I hesitate—should I wash up in the kitchen? But modesty wins out, and I head to the greenhouse. I quickly strip down and wash with a damp cloth. It’s nice and warm in here, but still—I don’t love the idea of being naked while Prax is just a few steps away.
Hypocritical, I know. I’ve already stared at him plenty. Purely for scientific observation, obviously.
Back in the kitchen, I’m dressed in a clean tunic when I see him—standing in the rest corner, gripping the couch for balance.
I nearly yelp. He’s wearing a towel—my towel—like a loincloth.I have to suppress a grin. Mister Dignity doesn’t want to appear weak. I respect that. I motion him over to the couch and hand him his bag, now holding his washed and folded pants.
He exhales in relief and gives me a thoughtful look as he pulls them out.
Wait… he’s not about to change right here, is he?
That wicked glint in his eye and the hand on the towel say yes.
I spin around fast and flee into the kitchen, trying not to laugh as he chuckles behind me.
One coral lentil and watercress salad later, I finally look at him again.
He’s dressed now, thank goodness, and the towel’s on the couch. I hand him a full bowl and fill mine with just a scoop.
“I’m not very hungry,” I say when he gives me a look.
Not true—but he needs it more than I do. That body has to run on serious fuel.
I grab my tablet and decide to show him a quick explainer video about Mars.
When the first colonists arrived, they had to adapt, and a simple, informative video was made.
The settlers came from all over Earth, so the clip’s in English—the shared language—but it’s super clear.
I don’t know if Prax came here on purpose or if he crashed by accident, but either way, he deserves to know where he is.
I play the video and it spreads across the wall.
He sits up instantly, eyes glued to the screen.
There’s a diagram of the solar system, a zoom on the fourth planet, then another zoom into our region—between Arabia Terra and Cydonia.
Then the calendar system: 24-hour days, 7-day weeks, just like Earth. But since Mars takes 687 days to orbit the sun, the Martian year is split into twelve months of 57 days—except for Europe, Analtha, and Himalia, which have 58.
He seems fascinated. The elliptical graph shows how the calendar aligns with orbital positions. I point to our current month: Aitnee, the end of winter. He nods.
Then I show him “Adrastee 40,” Kiran’s birthday, and mimic 14 cycles with little marks—he gets it. Kiran is 14. Which would be nearly double that on Earth.
He points at me now. I smile and show him “Callysto 12,” my birthday, and mark out 12 years.
No need to explain the months are named after Jupiter’s moons.
The video shifts to native Martian life forms. When a snow rabbit pops up, Prax’s eyes ignite, and his focus sharpens.
Just what I was afraid of: he’s a carnivore.
By Ares’ mercy…
How the hell am I supposed to feed him?