Chapter 11 – The First Harvest
The plains stretched black and red beneath the pale Martian sky, a horizon broken only by the rhythmic movement of machines. Dozens — no, hundreds — of Thrall-units, the Acheli’s tireless sentient machines, worked in perfect synchronization. Their segmented limbs struck the soil in unison, prying apart the stubborn crust of Mars to reveal the lifeless rock beneath.
But soon it would no longer be lifeless.
Pods, dark and glistening, were pressed into the furrows by mechanical arms. Once buried, their shells would rupture, seeding the ground with engineered fungi that fed on minerals and trace water drawn from the soil. The pods carried within them both fungus and the microscopic organisms that would transform the barren plain into something Acheli could harvest.
This was Jeyla’s domain — the farms of Mars, the foundation of survival. She stood atop the ridge overlooking the sprawling work, her mantle glimmering with dust, her crest raised proudly. Her hands moved across the controls of her personal slate, issuing subtle commands to the Thrall-units as if conducting an orchestra. With each new row planted, a whisper of atmosphere was released, a carefully balanced exhalation that would, in time, thicken the thin Martian air.
Behind her, the shuttle descended with a muted thrum, dust pluming outward in great red veils. The hatch opened, and Dorrin emerged. His retinue of guards remained at the landing site, while he strode forward alone. His bearing was unmistakable: the strength of a Vor’eth, a regional governor, one born to rule. Yet there was something in his eyes — not doubt, but the edge of unease.
He found Jeyla waiting at the crest, her gaze already fixed on him.
“Vor’eth Dorrin,” she greeted, inclining her head. “You honor the fields.”
“I honor necessity,” Dorrin replied, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed the formality. His eyes swept across the plains. “Your work is… formidable. Already the first spores take root. You build our sustenance here. Without it, Khor-Vael will be no more than stone and metal.”
Jeyla’s crest twitched in quiet satisfaction. “The farms will be ready before the first cold season is done. Mars will feed us well.”
They returned to her habitation dome, where Jeyla’s attendants prepared a feast — something rare and precious in these first days of colonization. Upon the stone table lay steaming platters of Sareth-broth, a thick stew of spiced fungal roots blended with strips of flesh from the Veyrr-beast, one of the hardy creatures bred within her bio-pods. Its scent filled the chamber, earthy and rich, a thousand times more alive than the synthetic nutrient-paste the colonists had consumed during the long voyage.
Dorrin ate in silence at first, savoring each bite as if rediscovering a memory long buried. When he spoke again, his voice was measured, but his gaze lingered on the meal.
“You remind us of what we have been deprived of. This is more than food, Jeyla. It is triumph.”
She inclined her head again. “Triumph comes from survival, Vor’eth. My task is to ensure we thrive where others would wither.”
Dorrin set down his vessel, his crest stiffening. “And you succeed. Khor-Vael rises swiftly — tunnels dig deeper by the day, the Great Temple of Aor’thuun already marked in stone. The other colonies scatter across the planet’s face, each carving its domain. Mars is generous. With such resources, life will be… more than survival.”
He paused, then leaned closer, lowering his tone. “But we must be cautious. Soon, this world will no longer hide behind the Sun. The humans will see us. They will see this.” He gestured toward the endless fields, toward the horizon etched with moving Thrall-units and fungal pods.
Jeyla met his gaze without hesitation. “Let them see. Acheli are nothing if not efficient. By the time they look, Mars will already belong to us.”
Dorrin regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. Externally, he was the Vor’eth — steady, commanding, resolute. Yet beneath the armor of duty, unease flickered. His father had prepared him for this destiny, his training had honed him to lead. Still, the thought remained: so much depended on this fragile beginning.
Everything.