The great hall hummed with a low murmur as rows upon rows of scientists, engineers, military officers, and young astronauts filled the polished seats. Above them, the domed ceiling glowed with a simulated night sky, stars twinkling faintly as if the universe itself had bent to listen. At the front of the hall, a colossal screen towered, waiting to display the evidence that had brought the world's finest minds together. The atmosphere was heavy with expectation; even the air felt taut, like a wire drawn to breaking point.
The director of the International Space Observation Bureau stood at the podium. Her silver hair glimmered under the spotlights, but her eyes carried the restless fire of someone who had seen the impossible and was still wrestling with its meaning. She raised a hand for silence. The murmur dissolved. You could hear the faint hum of the screen's standby mode.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice steady, though her hands betrayed a faint tremor against the polished steel of the podium. "What you are about to see was recorded by one of our orbital satellites four nights ago. It captured an event… an event we cannot explain."
With a flick of her hand across the digital console, the screen behind her bloomed to life. A grainy yet sharp image of Mars filled the hall: its red surface stretched endlessly, barren and lifeless. For a moment, nothing seemed unusual. But then the footage rolled forward.
From a single point on Mars's surface—an uncharted crater, dark and jagged—a sudden eruption of light burst forth. Not ordinary light, but something uncanny, something that defied the spectrum of human vision. It shimmered gold at the edges yet burned black at its core, twisting together in impossible harmony. The beam lanced outward from Mars's crust, piercing the darkness of space with blinding velocity.
Gasps broke across the room.
The beam struck its target: Earth's Moon. The screen shifted to footage from lunar satellites, showing the silvery sphere as it trembled under the impact. For three blinding seconds, a corona of light enveloped it, as though the Moon itself were aflame. And then, when the brilliance faded, a scar remained. A new crater, vast and jagged, carved deep into the lunar face.
Whispers erupted, frantic and fearful. The director let the reaction run for only a moment before raising her hand again.
"This was not a natural event," she said firmly. "Our instruments detected no solar flares, no meteor impacts, no cosmic anomalies to explain this. It originated from Mars. Something on that planet is… alive. Active. And possibly aware of us."
The hall darkened again, the footage looping, the golden-black light replaying like a haunting memory etched into every retina present.
At one of the tables sat the astronauts—young, sharp, restless with energy. They exchanged quick glances, their jaws tight. They had trained for years for exploration, not confrontation. Yet in that instant, they knew exploration and confrontation had merged into one.
A scientist in the front row rose, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. His voice trembled as he spoke. "Could this… could this be a weapon? A test? Mars is barren—we have mapped it for decades. Nothing should live there. Nothing should create this."
The director's eyes flickered with a shadow of unease. "We do not know. But if it is a weapon, then it is one unlike anything humanity has conceived. The energy levels detected exceeded our most advanced nuclear arsenals by magnitudes. And yet—it lasted only seconds. A warning, perhaps? Or an accident?"
The debate swelled. Some shouted for caution, urging retreat, demanding no human approach Mars until the phenomenon was understood. Others, fueled by curiosity or fear, pressed for immediate investigation. Military advisors whispered of defense systems, of orbital shields, of retaliation.
But amid the noise, the decision had already been made. The astronauts seated there, faces pale under the artificial light, were the chosen ones. They would go to Mars. They would see with their own eyes the origin of that golden-black beam. And they would return with answers—or not return at all.
The presentation dissolved into strategy sessions, command briefings, and hurried agreements. Behind closed doors, governments quarreled, but outwardly, the plan was united: Mars must be approached. Humanity could not ignore a force that could scar the Moon in seconds.
The following days transformed the astronaut candidates into soldiers of destiny. Their preparation was relentless. The cavernous training bays echoed with the clang of metallic equipment, the roar of engines under test, the disciplined calls of instructors drilling them on procedure after procedure. Each astronaut was fitted with suits designed for durability against radiation, temperature extremes, and—though no one would say it out loud—against weapons humanity did not yet understand.
Dr. Elric Voss, lead scientist of propulsion, oversaw the spacecraft itself. The Asterion, gleaming silver with streaks of cobalt, was no ordinary vessel. Built from alloys newly synthesized in orbital factories, it was designed for long-range interplanetary travel, armed with shield generators to deflect meteor fragments—and perhaps more. Its engines, powered by plasma cores, throbbed with restrained fury, yearning to break free of Earth's pull.
The astronauts themselves became symbols. Their faces were broadcast across every screen on Earth. In schools, children whispered their names. In crowded cities, murals were painted of their likenesses, bold and heroic. The world watched them as if they were already legends, their journey destined to etch itself into the chronicles of humankind.
And yet, in private, the weight crushed them. They laughed together during training to mask their unease. They recited procedures to drown out the lingering vision of that beam tearing through the Moon. They looked at the stars differently now—not as a frontier of wonder, but as a battlefield that had called their names.
The night before launch, the great hall once again filled with officials, this time to send the astronauts off. The director stood before them one last time, her voice solemn.
"You are not merely explorers. You are emissaries of Earth. Whatever waits on Mars, you will face it not as individuals, but as humanity itself. Remember—our eyes, our hopes, our fears, travel with you."
Then came the dawn.
On the launch platform, the Asterion towered, its hull gleaming under the rising sun. The air quivered with the rumble of engines powering up, vibrating through the steel framework of the station. The astronauts walked in single file, their helmets tucked beneath their arms, their suits pristine, reflective visors glinting gold against the light. Cameras tracked their every step. The world held its breath.
Inside the spacecraft, the hum of machinery became a lullaby of steel and fire. The astronauts strapped themselves into their seats, their breathing echoing within helmets sealed tight. The control panels glowed with cascading streams of data, every number a fragile promise of survival.
"Mission control," the captain's voice rang steady, though sweat beaded at his brow, "this is Asterion. Systems check complete. Awaiting countdown."
"Copy, Asterion," came the calm reply from Earth. "Engines primed. Countdown begins at T-minus sixty seconds."
The world watched. On screens from New York to Lagos, from Cairo to Beijing, millions stared, transfixed. The countdown lit up every display: 60… 59… 58…
Inside, hearts pounded like war drums.
10… 9… 8…
The engines roared to life, a thunderous symphony shaking the heavens. Fire bled from the thrusters, scorching the launch pad as gravity itself screamed in protest.
3… 2… 1.
The Asterion surged upward, tearing itself from Earth's embrace, a spear of light against the morning sky. Clouds shredded in its wake as the roar carried across oceans and mountains, uniting humanity in awe and dread.
From the observation deck, children raised their hands to the heavens. Elders whispered prayers. Scientists gripped the railings until their knuckles whitened.
The spacecraft pierced the clouds, ascended through the thinning blue, and broke into the silence of space. Earth fell away beneath them, a jewel of blue and green, fragile and small against the eternal void. Ahead lay the Moon, scarred by the golden-black beam, a reminder of the mystery that had set this journey in motion.
But beyond the Moon, further still, lay Mars. Waiting. Watching. Silent.
The astronauts exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting both fear and determination. They were no longer bound by Earth's gravity; they were bound only by the destiny awaiting them on that red world.
And far away, on Mars's surface, the dark crater stirred. Something pulsed within, faint but undeniable, as though it had felt their launch, as though it had always known they would come.