ENTRY 001 — BIODOME KIOSK V-13, RIDGELINE SECTOR

[Transmission marked: Partial — Delay Acceptable]

18:03 soltime.

Stopped because I was hungry. Not protocol, just blood sugar. That creeping dizziness, like your brain’s half a second behind your eyes.

Ridgeline Sector is a stretch of high Martian terrain carved out during the early settlement era for low-impact civilian infrastructure. It's now mostly abandoned, known for unstable terrain and low signal integrity.

The rover’s cabin was baking. It's the  cramped, pressurized interior of my long-haul planetary vehicle, retrofitted for both transport and survival. It doubles as home, office, and fallback shelter for off-grid operatives who can pass for everyday, average drifters.

I’d turned off the climate module hours ago to conserve charge. It didn’t help. I could feel the salt crystallizing behind my ears. I saw a bird in the rearview again. No. Nevermind. That’s the third time this week. No birds on Mars.

The Martian timekeeping standard, so time, is based on the solar day (sol), roughly 24 hours and 39 minutes. We use it in all formal logs and transmissions to distinguish it from Earth time.

I pulled into the kiosk dome on instinct. Half-collapsed. Sunlight pouring through a fractured panel in the roof. It looked like it had been patched with shipping tarp and wishful thinking. 

Inside, the air was cold - too cold. Overcorrected climate systems always remind me of hospitals.

There were four people inside. None of them spoke. They stood around like they were waiting for something to happen, or already knew what was going to. I caught a whiff of something: synthetic citrus and cleaning fluid. Flashback to an old cafeteria. Eighth grade. Blue trays and wet linoleum.

I walked up to the venderbot. Tried to buy fizzwater and a sugar pack. Fizzwater

Carbonated is a brand of synthetic hydration, slightly sweet and dosed with electrolytes. It was originally developed as a morale-boosting ration substitute, but  now it's mostly used by wanderers and fringe-dwellers.

The bot didn’t speak - just dumped the items into the tray like it didn’t want to touch them. Or me. The fizz hissed when I cracked it open. Everyone looked up at once. No movement, just faces turning. That moment lasted longer than it should have.

I said, “You all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Nobody laughed.

Then I added, “You remember that guy the Bureau was hunting out past the Rings? The one who walked straight into headquarters and sat down like it was home?”

Still nothing. Just them, their watches, that strange rhythm to the way they shifted. All of them counting time, like they were waiting for something to sync. Maybe a drop. Maybe an alarm.

The Bureau is a covert intelligence agency from pre-collapse Earth, still rumored to operate in fragmented cells across Martian sectors. 

Its presence is often whispered about but rarely confirmed.

There's a defunct central operations hub buried beneath the Martian crust, originally used by Earth’s administrative command. It was officially shuttered after the Separation Accords, but some claim it's still active beneath the ice strata.

One woman dragged the heel of her boot in the dust. Drew three interlocking rings. Sloppy, but intentional. It triggered something. That old orbital mechanics lesson: three gravitational bodies, locked but unstable. Never resolves. Never predictable. Like every conversation I’ve had this month.

I think they were testing me. Or maybe it wasn’t about me at all. That’s worse, in a way. When you realize you’re not even the point of the paranoia.

The Rings is a slang term for the old orbital transport and defense stations that once circled Mars during peak colonization. Some are now decommissioned, but others have fallen into rogue control. It's now one of the most dangerous areas on the planet I now call home.

I took my fizz, left the sugar behind. Too sweet. The kind that coats your teeth and makes you more thirsty. Outside, the ridge was turning a pale rust color in the dusk. I stood there for a minute, just breathing in the filtered air through the cracked vent of my mask. The taste of recycled oxygen always reminds me of my father’s garage - rubber, oil, and mold. He used to fix things.

Fizzwater is mass-produced on Mars, slightly carbonated with a chemical bite. It's sold in sealed capsules or foil packs, delivering hydration, caffeine, and a mild mood stabilizer. Long-haul drivers and off-grid wanderers rely on it to stay alert and sane during extended solcycles. 

I don’t fix anything anymore. I just watch.

There are several numbered biodome kiosks scattered across the Ridgeline Sector. V-13 was registered as a “low-frequency comfort node” before maintenance was pulled. The last official entry in its log is seventeen years old.

Filed this under V-13. Marked as anomalous. Probably nothing. Probably everything. If you're listening, flag it anyway. I’m losing my edge with the fizz, and that’s usually the first sign something’s coming.

—Null