Summer Adventure, a Short Story The cold bit into Greg's cheeks as his gloved hand found purchase on the jagged edge of Ares Mons. With a grunt, he hauled himself over the last treacherous outcrop, muscles burning from the ascent. He stood, panting, and surveyed the landscape from the planet's pinnacle. One by one, his fellow Explorers crested the summit, breaths crystallizing in the thin air. Their faces, obscured by goggles and scarves, were nonetheless painted with triumph. Tara's eyes sparkled even behind her visor, the fringes of her hair turned to frosty wisps. Isaac's chest heaved, a rhythmic fog pumping from his mask in tandem with his heavy breaths. They had done it – they had ascended the insurmountable, driven by youthful daring and an unquenchable thirst for adventure. Tim, ever the enthusiast of their band, peeled off his glove and wiped away the ice forming on his goggles. He stood close to the edge, where the rock face fell away into a sublime abyss. "Oh my gosh, look at that view," he exclaimed, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief that carried over the crisp wind. He pointed towards the horizon, where the outline of New Haven was etched into the curve of the planet, a distant mirage of civilization amidst the wild frontier. "You can see the game dome from here." The others shuffled closer, careful not to disturb the precarious snow crust beneath their boots. There was a communal intake of breath as eyes traced the familiar contours of their home from this new vantage point. It was a sight few would ever witness, a momentary dominion over the world that had raised them rugged and resilient. Greg felt something stir inside him, a cocktail of pride and a peculiar sense of smallness, as the panorama unfolded in all its stark beauty. Here on the apex of Ares Mons, they were conquerors, yet humbled before the grandeur of the cosmos. Paul, his breath visible in the frigid air, fumbled with a bundle strapped to his backpack. With a triumphant grin, he unfurled a flag upon a telescoping pole, its fabric snapping to attention in the biting wind. "I claim this mountain in the name of Ares Explorers Troop 210!" His voice rose above the howl of the elements, resolute and unyielding. He thrust the pole into the snow where they stood, and it sank with unexpected ease. The vibrant colors of their troop's emblem drooped low, brushing against the white surface. He frowned, brows knitting together beneath his frosted visor. "Hey, what gives, where's the ground?" "Snow's deceptive up here," Greg observed, peering down at the flag now barely aloft above the surface. His gaze was steady, analytical, despite the creeping chill that sought to seep through his layers. "This part of the summit is like a bowl, the snow is probably twelve feet deep." The authority in his voice bolstered the group's confidence, even as he shivered with more than cold. "The shelter is buried down there somewhere. Let's get our snowshoes on and start probing for it, I’m froze to the bone." Their mission was clear; the urgency palpable. They would need to find the shelter soon or face the mountain's unforgiving nature. As leader, Greg's instinct to protect his troop pushed back against the encroaching frost, his own discomfort secondary to their collective safety. Greg adjusted his snowshoes, the tension in his fingers a testament to the biting cold. The icy wind clawed at any exposed skin, but he was no stranger to the harshness of this planet. As he secured the straps, his mind wandered back to the start of their journey, the approval they had received for the expedition — and the part they'd conveniently omitted. "Alright, everyone, let's keep close," he called out over the crunching of snow underfoot, his voice steady despite the recollection of their secret plan. Their village elders had trusted them to explore the wild frontier, a vast expanse that had been their playground since they could walk. They were the children who tamed serpents before they learned to swim, the ones who whispered stories of danger like lullabies. And yet, this mountain, this unclaimed giant, had not been on the approved itinerary. Tim glanced at Greg, an impish gleam in his eye barely visible through the frost that clung to his goggles. He, too, felt the thrill of their covert endeavor. Ever since the group had left the rustic familiarity of their fishing village, the idea of conquering Ares Mons lingered in their collective conscience like a siren call. "Can't wait to post the vids," Tim muttered, a wry smile hidden beneath his scarf. "We'll be legends." "Legends alive, preferably," Greg retorted, allowing himself a rare smirk. It wasn't just about being the youngest to scale the peak; it was about proving themselves capable beyond their years, beyond their wild upbringing. They moved closer together, an unspoken pact among them strengthening with each step towards the buried shelter. Once inside, they would unleash their story upon the galaxy — a tale of tenacity and youthful audacity. But first, they had to survive the summit's frozen embrace. The crunch of snow underfoot punctuated the stillness of the summit as they fanned out, each step a methodical press into the icy expanse. Greg watched his companions, their silhouettes stark against the white landscape, each one determined and small beneath the enormity of Ares Mons. They might have been born to the wilds, but this mountain was a challenge of a different order. "Hey, I think I found it," Tara's voice sliced through the wind, her figure bent over a spot where her pole had struck something solid beneath the snow's deceptive pillow. Greg moved towards her, planting his snowshoes with purpose. Each breath was a cloud of effort in the frigid air. He plunged his own pole down beside hers, feeling the resistance of metal against the tip. A soft thump resonated—a sound so deeply satisfying it could only mean one thing: the shelter. "Good work," he called to Tara, pulling free the compact shovel strapped to his pack. Its blade bit into the snow, carving out block after block. The snow here was packed tight by the relentless winds that swept the summit, perfect for crafting a barrier against the very elements that compressed it. "Let's get these walls up!" he shouted over his shoulder, already imagining the respite that awaited them below. They were frontier kids, yes, but even they couldn't deny the bone-deep cold that clawed at them now. The promise of shelter was more than just victory—it was survival. The rhythmic scraping of shovels and hiss of sloughing snow filled the air as the others rallied to Greg's side, eager hands pulling their own compact shovels from packs. The wind buffeted them with growing ferocity, a harbinger of an encroaching storm. Flurries spiraled in the air, dusting their jackets with a fresh layer of white. "Good thing we made the climb in summer," Isaac exclaimed, breath visible, "can you imagine what it’s like up here during the winter?" A collective shudder rippled through the group at the thought, their pace quickening with urgency. They worked in unison, each block of snow meticulously cut and lifted from the emerging tunnel. The camaraderie was silent but solid, their shared goal fueling every motion. "Almost there," Greg encouraged, his voice barely audible over the howling wind that seemed to snatch the words from his lips. His gloves were damp, fingers numb, but he refused to let the cold slow him down. This mountain had tested them at every turn, and he'd be damned if he let it win now. With each passing minute, the tunnel took shape, its walls smooth and angled against collapse. The shelter, a safety net provided by the Ares Government for climbers brave—or foolish—enough to tackle the mountain's perilous heights, was close. So close Greg could almost feel the warmth promised by its sturdy walls. Then, as if the mountain itself conceded defeat, the dark outline of the shelter materialized beneath the white canvas of the summit. Cheers erupted, muffled against the wind’s roar, but vibrant in their triumph. They had found it. They had conquered Ares Mons, and now its peak would offer them sanctuary. Tara's brow furrowed as she surveyed the snow-sculpted landscape, her breath creating puffs of fog that dissipated quickly in the frigid air. She motioned to the others, her voice barely piercing the relentless wind. “We’re on the wrong side,” she said, pointing to the exposed curve of metal that suggested an entrance buried on the opposite end. Greg, shoulders dusted with a fine layer of snow from his efforts, squinted towards where she indicated. He could see the faint outline of the door’s frame now, a silent testament to their miscalculation. Yet, his mind was already working past the mistake, finding the silver lining in their misstep. "That’s okay," he replied, his tone carrying a touch of leader's resolve. “This will block the wind from getting in every time we open the door.” His words cut through the doubt like a knife through the icy crust beneath their feet. Greg's reassurance steadied the group; they trusted him, his knack for strategy and his unwavering optimism, even when the mountain threw challenges their way. As they prepared to carve their way towards the true entrance, Greg's quick thinking had turned a setback into a strategic advantage. And with that, the team set back to work, each movement precise, driven by newfound purpose. The icy embrace of the blizzard nipped at their heels as the last of the snow was cleared away to reveal the sturdily built door of the shelter. With urgency born of necessity, the group tumbled inside, a cascade of bodies eager for refuge from the biting cold. The door thudded shut behind them, the sound swallowed by the muffled roar of the storm outside. Greg's flashlight flickered to life, cutting through the dimness of the interior. His hand, still encased in his thick glove, swept the beam across the room. It danced over a table that stood solidly in the center, flanked by several chairs that promised rest for their weary forms. The stove against the far wall, silent and cold, had been marked by the passage of countless climbers before them—names etched into the metal like a roll call of adventurers. "Look," Tara's voice cut through the hush that had fallen over the group, her finger pointing towards an unassuming door opposite the stove. "There’s another door." Her words reignited a spark of curiosity within the group, a welcome distraction from the grim reality of their situation outside. Greg nodded, his mind already churning with possibilities of what lay beyond, as the group shuffled closer, the warmth of the shelter seeping slowly into their bones. Greg grasped the handle, a metallic chill seeping through his gloves, and pushed. The door creaked on its hinges, a reluctant herald to their discovery. "Oh, it's the bunkroom," he announced, a hint of relief threading his voice. The chamber beyond was compact but orderly, lined with sturdy bunks stacked one atop the other. A collective sigh rippled through the group—a sanctuary within their icy fortress. They surged forward, a tangle of elbows and anticipation, as the rush to claim sleeping arrangements turned competitive. "Top bunk’s mine!" Isaac declared, his lanky form scrambling up the ladder with the nimbleness of a cat. "Like heck it is!" retorted Tara, her own competitive streak flaring as she jockeyed for position. Their voices echoed in the small space, a vibrant reminder of life amidst the desolation outside. "Guys, don't start," Greg said, his tone carrying the weight of leadership, even as he nudged his own pack against the frame of a lower bunk. It was closest to the door, a tactical choice born from his instinctual need to be the first line of defense for his troop. His decision went unchallenged, the others too absorbed in their skirmish over sleeping quarters. "Fine, I'll take this one then," conceded Tim, finally settling on a middle bunk, while the others continued their good-natured banter. The air filled with the sound of laughter and mock protests, a human counterpoint to the howling wind that sought to encroach upon their hard-won haven. Paul's voice sliced through the boisterous energy, redirecting their attention. "There's two more doors back here," he announced, his breath forming clouds in the chilly air as he beckoned the others with a wave of his hand. Curiosity piqued, they gravitated towards him, their previous squabbles momentarily forgotten. Paul's fingers curled around the first doorknob, giving it an experimental twist before pushing it open with an authoritative creak. He peered inside, his eyes adjusting to the shadows within. "Oh, this one is the bathroom," he declared, a touch of relief in his tone. The necessity of such a facility after their grueling ascent was not lost on anyone. "Thank goodness," Tara mumbled, her voice low but carrying enough for a ripple of chuckles to spread among the group. "Check out what's behind door number two," urged Isaac, his head tilting towards the unexplored threshold at the far end of the room, where Jacob already stood, poised with anticipation. Jacob's arm muscles flexed beneath the sleeve of his thermal as he pushed up the stubborn door, a puff of frosty air escaping from the gap as if the storeroom itself were breathing out in surprise at being disturbed. He stepped back, allowing the others to peer over his shoulder into the dimly lit space. "This is a storeroom, sheesh," he exclaimed with a whistle, his gaze sweeping over the neatly stacked supplies, "there’s enough food back here for a year." His words resonated with a mix of awe and incredulity, sparking a collective surge of excitement. "Whoa, we hit the jackpot!" Tim couldn't help but marvel, his eyes wide as they all took in the sight of canned goods, vacuum-sealed meals, and packets of dehydrated fruits lining the shelves. "Looks like we won't go hungry," Greg added, a grin breaking across his face. It was good to know that even if the world outside was a frozen wasteland, they had provisions to sustain them. It was a small victory, a semblance of control in an environment that offered little. With a determined nod, Jacob vanished into the shadowy depths of the storeroom. The others busied themselves with their gear, the sound of zippers and the rustle of fabric the only noise aside from the howl of the wind outside. Minutes ticked by until a sudden hum pierced the silence, and overhead, lights flickered to life, bathing the shelter in a warm glow. "Got it!" Jacob's voice boomed from the storeroom, his silhouette framed against the light as he emerged triumphantly, a hefty box cradled in his arms. "They got six of those radioisotope batteries that last fifty-years, we got enough power." "Nice find," Tara remarked, peering inside the box as he set it down amidst the group. Greg, meanwhile, had stripped off his ice-crusted jacket and was vigorously rubbing his arms for warmth. He glanced up at the ceiling, where the newly illuminated bulbs did nothing to stave off the cold biting at his skin. "Cool," he said through chattering teeth, his breath misting in the frosty air. "Someone figure out how to turn the heater on, it’s an icebox in here." His gaze shifted to the control panel that Tara had been eyeing earlier, its array of buttons now visible in the artificial light. Tara's fingers danced across the control panel, her brow furrowed in concentration as she deciphered the hieroglyph-like symbols etched beside each button. With a decisive press, a low hum filled the room, growing louder as the fans behind the grates spun to life. Warm air spilled forth, cascading over the shivering climbers like an invisible tide. "I got it," Tara announced, a note of triumph lacing her words. The others gathered around, drawn by the promise of warmth, their eyes reflecting gratitude. Relief seeped into their limbs as the shelter gradually shed its icy grip, and sounds of contented sighs mingled with the mechanical symphony of the heater. With his body beginning to thaw, Greg stood among his friends, the sensation returning to his tingling fingers. He glanced at the ration box Jacob had unearthed, his stomach growling a reminder of the meager sustenance they'd subsisted on during their ascent. The memory of crunchy, flavorless bars made his palate yearn for something more substantial. "Let’s get some dinner started," he said, his voice resonating with an eagerness that echoed the hunger etched on every face. "We haven’t eaten more than a few dry rations during that five day climb, I’m starved." His statement rippled through the group, spurring them into action as they realized that not only were they about to enjoy the comfort of heat but also the simple pleasure of a meal shared in victory. Jacob's shadow fell across the peeling surface of the wooden table as he approached, box in hand. "Way ahead of you," he remarked with a grin that suggested he relished the role of provider among his peers. Within moments, the scent of cured ham began to fill the room, mingling with the steam rising from a pot of instant mashed potatoes. The group congregated around the reclaimed table, its surface scarred from past expeditions, now hosting their feast. They ate with an enthusiasm honed by hunger and the taste of victory. Forks clinked against metal plates, and eager hands reached for seconds, thirds—each bite savored more than the last. Greg, still flushed from the exertion of their climb, listened as Tim animatedly described the moment he nearly lost his grip on a precarious ledge, his gestures wild enough to send droplets of water flying from his sleeve. Laughter bubbled up from their tight circle, each member buoyed by the shared experience of conquering Ares Mons. Outside, the wind howled like a banshee at war with the mountain, its fury a stark contrast to the haven they found within the shelter. But inside, the storm's wrath was reduced to a distant hum, easily dismissed by the camaraderie that enveloped them. It was this bond, forged through challenge and adventure, which warmed them deeper than any heater ever could. The laughter and stories had dwindled as the night wore on, replaced by a collective weariness that seemed to settle over the group like a thick blanket. One by one, they began to peel away from the table, the clinking of utensils giving way to the shuffling of boots and the soft thuds of exhausted bodies claiming their bunks. Greg stumbled toward his chosen bed, the bunk closest to the door, its proximity a silent promise of being first to greet the new day's challenge. He shucked off his boots with little care, letting them fall haphazardly beside the metal frame. His movements were sluggish, each muscle protesting the day's exertions as he hoisted himself onto the lower mattress. The thin padding did little to cushion the hard surface, but to Greg's spent body, it might as well have been a cloud. He rolled into his sleeping bag, the fabric whispering against itself, and let his eyes fall shut. The wind's mournful cry outside seemed to lull him closer to sleep, a natural lullaby for their band of intrepid explorers. As the others found their respective spots, a symphony of sighs and the occasional groan harmonized with the storm outside, forming a comforting, if odd, chorus. Greg was teetering on the edge of dreams when the shaking began. At first, he thought it an aftershock of their climb, a phantom sensation of rock beneath fingertips. But then Isaac's voice, insistent and tinged with excitement, pierced the veil of slumber. "Greg! Wake up, the mail is here." The words took a moment to coalesce into coherence within Greg's foggy brain. Mail? Here? A disbelieving grunt escaped his lips as he forced one eye open, meeting Isaac's wide-eyed stare. The absurdity of the situation should have made him laugh, should have been another tale to recount around the now abandoned table. Instead, a trickle of curiosity seeped through his fatigue. What kind of mail arrived at the summit of Ares Mons in the dead of night? Greg's mind, still muddled with sleep, struggled to process Isaac's words. A mail shuttle? At this hour? The absurdity of the situation prodded him further toward wakefulness. "What…?" he managed to murmur, his voice a gravelly whisper that betrayed his skepticism. Isaac's silhouette was outlined by the dim light filtering through the shelter's small windows, a shadow punctuated by breaths visible in the chill air. "I got up to use the bathroom and heard a horn blaring outside. I went to look and…" He paused for dramatic effect, perhaps realizing the weight of his next words on their unexpected adventure. "I’m serious, there’s a mail shuttle hovering over the summit." Greg rubbed at his eyes, casting off the last remnants of sleep. The prospect of a mail shuttle arriving in such conditions, at such an hour, it was unheard of. Yet here they were, on Ares Mons, where the impossible seemed to be part of the daily routine. With each heart-thumping second, the veil of night seemed less like a blanket of rest and more like a curtain rising on the next act of their summer escapade—a performance none of them could have anticipated. Greg's heart pounded as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, the cold air biting at his skin. His hands fumbled with the laces of his boots, urgency outweighing the need for precision. The rustle and groans of the others, roused from the depths of slumber, filled the cramped space of the shelter. He spared a glance at their disheveled forms, noting the same dazed confusion mirrored in their half-lidded eyes that must have been present in his own. "Come on," Isaac urged, already halfway out the door, his voice laced with an excitement that tingled Greg's spine. Barely pulling the last strap tight, Greg hurried after him, the chill of the shelter floor seeping into the soles of his boots. His thermal undergarments—a thin barrier against the mountain’s frozen breath—offered little comfort as he stepped into the night. A wall of icy wind slapped against his bare arms, instantly raising goosebumps and eliciting a shiver that rattled his bones. Above them, the sky churned, dark clouds swirling ominously. There, amidst the tempest, a mail shuttle fought to maintain its altitude, the engines' roar a discordant symphony against the howling wind. It danced a dangerous ballet, each sway of its metal body sending Greg's heart into his throat. "Be careful!" he shouted, the words whipped away by the gale. The shuttle's side doors yawned open, revealing the silhouettes of crates within. Mechanical arms, precise despite the chaos, extended outward and with a swift shove, ejected the cargo. The crates plummeted, striking the snowy surface with a muffled thud, burrowing deep into the drifts like metallic seeds sown by an iron farmer. "Watch out!" Isaac yelled, pulling Greg back just as one crate landed where he had stood a heartbeat before. For a moment, everything was still, save for the shuttle’s thrusters igniting in a desperate bid for escape. It lurched away from the mountain's treacherous grasp, disappearing into the night. "Did you see that?" Isaac breathed, his face alight with the thrill of danger and discovery. Greg nodded, his chest heaving, both from the cold and the adrenaline coursing through him. As the echo of the shuttle's engines faded, replaced once more by the symphony of the wind, he knew their adventure had taken a turn into the realms of the unimaginable. Isaac's breath formed clouds of mist as he turned to Greg, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion. "What was that all about?" he asked, the words barely audible over the wind's relentless howl. Greg squinted against the cold that bit into his skin, his brain racing to make sense of what they’d just witnessed. The image of the mail shuttle, armed and erratic, was imprinted in his mind. “I don’t know,” he admitted, shaking his head in disbelief. "But have you ever seen a mail shuttle armed with two side missiles before?" His voice held an edge of suspicion that mirrored Isaac’s own concern. Something was up; this wasn't a normal delivery or a standard craft used for such purposes. Their isolation at the summit of Ares Mons had shielded them from whatever chaos was unfolding beyond their snowy enclave. "Something is up," Greg repeated, more to himself than to Isaac, decision firming in his tone. "We need to dig those crates out of the snow." He set off towards the nearest crate, each step purposeful despite the biting cold that urged him to seek refuge back inside the shelter. Duty and curiosity propelled him forward, and he knew without a doubt that the contents of those crates would thrust them into the heart of whatever storm awaited them. Teeth chattering, Isaac shuffled from one foot to the other, his breath a cloud of vapor in the frigid air. "Let's get dressed first, it's freezing," he suggested, already retreating toward the relative warmth of the shelter. Greg gave a curt nod, feeling the sting of the cold seep through the layers of his thermal undergarments. They hustled inside, urgency mingling with the bone-deep chill that clung to them like a second skin. The shelter, now a bulwark against the unforgiving elements, welcomed them with its promise of protection and resources. They slipped into their gear with practiced efficiency, each layer providing a slight buffer against the biting cold they would soon have to face again. Time blurred as they worked to excavate the crates, the task made arduous by the depth of the snow and the uncertain footing on the rocky terrain beneath. Muscles ached and sweat froze on their brows, but determination fueled their efforts until, at last, they hauled the final crate into the main room of the shelter. "Okay, go ahead," Greg said, his voice steady despite the questions storming his mind. Paul, with fingers made clumsy by cold and anticipation, fumbled with the latches before swinging open the lid of the first crate. The contents were startlingly out of place against the rustic backdrop of the shelter. White snow parkas lay folded neatly, their fabric promising warmth and camouflage in the snowy expanse outside. Night vision goggles nestled next to the parkas, their lenses reflecting the dim interior light. Beside them lay maps, detailed and marked with coordinates that beckoned to unknown adventures or unforeseen dangers. Lastly, a portable AI module accompanied by a set of holo-emitters sat waiting, its purpose a mystery yet to unfold. "Wow," Paul murmured, lifting a pair of night vision goggles and turning them over in his hands. The others crowded around, faces alight with curiosity and a twinge of apprehension. Greg's brow furrowed as he ran his hands over the unfamiliar gear, a sense of unease creeping into the awe that had initially filled the room. The parkas and goggles seemed like standard issue for extreme conditions, but the AI module was high-tech military-grade equipment, far beyond the basic survival gear they were accustomed to handling. "What the heck is going on?" Greg asked, his voice echoing slightly off the metal walls of the shelter. A shiver ran down his spine that wasn't entirely from the cold. His mind raced through scenarios, each more improbable than the last. Were they being enlisted? Tested? None of it made sense. "Uh, guys?" Tim's voice cut through the confusion, his tone an odd mix of embarrassment and amusement. He held up a crumpled piece of paper that had been overlooked in the initial inspection of the crate. “Woops,” he said with a crooked grin, the levity not quite reaching his eyes as he met Greg's gaze. “There’s a note on this crate that says, ‘open first’." A collective breath was drawn as all eyes turned to Tim. Every member of the troop felt the shift in the air—a jolt of reality invading their adventurous fantasy. This was no longer just a daring escapade; the stakes had suddenly escalated. Greg stepped forward, a leader by nature, taking the note from Tim's outstretched hand. The others watched intently as he unfolded the paper, the sound of crinkling filling the small room. They leaned in, the circle tightening around him, each young explorer bracing for whatever directive might be spelled out on that seemingly innocent slip. Whatever it was, they knew their summer adventure had just taken an unexpected turn. "Open it," Greg said, his voice edged with a command that belied his youth. The gravity of their situation growing in mystery. Tim nodded and placed the crate on the table, his fingers working deftly to release the clasps. With a creaking protest, the lid swung open to reveal the contents nestled within protective foam: a radio, its black casing stark against the white. Paul and Tara leaned in closer, curiosity piqued, as Greg's steady hands lifted the device and set it before them. The air was electric with anticipation. Greg studied the radio for a moment, the lines around his mouth deepening. The others watched silently, a silent pact among them to let him lead. He pursed his lips, a gesture that had become familiar over their journey as a sign of his deep concentration. Then, decisively, his thumb pressed the on switch. "Umm... hello, is this stuff for us?" His words hung awkwardly in the stale air of the shelter, a stark contrast to the howling blizzard outside. There was a vulnerability in his voice, an echo of the boy who had once dragged home serpentine trophies, now confronted with a mystery far beyond the frontier's wilds. Static buzzed from the radio, a harsh intrusion into the quiet trepidation that had taken hold of the shelter. The group clustered around the table, their breaths visible in the frigid air, eyes locked on Greg and the black box before him. He leaned forward, the orange glow from the stove casting sharp shadows over his face. "About time," a voice crackled through the speaker, authoritative and impatient. "This is Colonel Roberts, who am I speaking with?" There was a moment's hesitation as Greg's throat tightened. His fingers brushed against the cold metal of the radio, a lifeline to an unknown world beyond their icy confines. He cleared his throat, trying to sound older, more confident than he felt. "Umm… I’m Greg Cooper." His voice carried a hint of uncertainty, betraying the fact that just moments ago, he'd been nothing more than a boy on an adventure, far removed from military ranks and formal salutations. The radio's speaker crackled to life, filling the shelter with an unexpected intrusion. "What are you doing on top of that mountain?" The voice was gruff, edged with the rasp of authority and a thinly veiled impatience that demanded attention. Greg's pulse quickened, his eyes darting to his fellow explorers, who now mirrored his uncertainty. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing down upon him, the leader by default in the absence of their adult guides. The icy veneer of adventure had melted away, leaving a stark reality that gnawed at his resolve. Swallowing hard against the lump forming in his throat, Greg positioned himself closer to the radio, as if proximity might lend him strength. Seeking some semblance of courage from the familiar faces around him, he replied with a falter that he desperately hoped didn't betray his inner turmoil. "We're an Ares Explorers club, Troop 210. We’re on our summer adventure." His words were punctuated by a brief but loaded pause, the question that followed laced with a mix of hope and dread. "Are we in trouble?" The room seemed to contract with the tension of that query, the eyes of his fellow young climbers fixed on Greg, seeking reassurance within the cramped confines of their high-altitude haven. They stood perched on the precipice of the unknown, their summer of wild exploits potentially culminating in something far graver than they had ever imagined. The static from the radio hung heavily in the air, vying with the sound of the heaters whirring to life. Greg's fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the device as he leaned in, trying to make sense of the Colonel's urgency. "Do you have any idea what's going on, don't you have a radio?" the Colonel's voice barked through the static. For an instant, Greg's gaze flicked towards Paul, whose sheepish expression confirmed the collective guilt they all shared. His eyes then settled back on the radio, its presence now seeming more an accusation than a lifeline. "We lost it when we crossed the Cass River," he admitted, the words feeling inadequate as they left his lips. The confession settled into the room like frost upon glass, each member of Troop 210 acutely aware of their isolation atop Ares Mons. They had laughed off the loss at the time, the river's swift currents sweeping away their connection to the world below as they continued their ascent, hearts full of adventure and minds free of consequence. Now, their miscalculation loomed over them, a tangible void where the radio had once been, its absence a stark reminder of their vulnerability. Greg's breath misted in the frigid air as he clutched the radio, its surface now slick with condensation. The Colonel's voice, impatient and crackling with static, cut through the tension that gripped the shelter. "Alright, never mind that now," the Colonel dismissed their predicament with a gruffness that suggested bigger concerns than a lost radio. "Do you know about the alien invasion?" The question hung like a twisted icicle over their heads, poised to drop. Greg swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry despite the cold. He exchanged a glance with Tara, whose eyes were wide with a mix of fear and curiosity. They had heard whispers of conflict, stories spun across the galaxy like the most fantastical tales from old Earth. But here, on Ares, it all seemed so distant, so disconnected from their reality. "Umm... yeah," Greg started, his voice betraying the uncertainty that fogged his mind. "They're heading towards Earth supposedly, but that has nothing to do with us." His words felt hollow even to his own ears, a feeble attempt to keep their adventure untainted by the shadow of interstellar war. Beside him, Jacob shifted uneasily, his hands fiddling with the hem of his newly acquired snow parka—a tangible reminder of their unexpected entanglement in galactic affairs. Despite their bravado, their encounters with local fauna paled in comparison to the specter of an extraterrestrial threat. Their summit conquest, once a symbol of youthful triumph, now teetered on the brink of irrelevance against the backdrop of an unimaginable crisis. And yet, Greg stood rooted to the spot, a reluctant beacon atop Ares Mons, awaiting instructions that might anchor them to a cause far greater than any they had ever envisioned. Greg's hand, still gripping the radio, went numb. The static-laden voice of Colonel Roberts bore through the crackling airwaves again, each word a hammer blow to their makeshift sanctuary. "It does now. The aliens changed course, they'll attack Ares in four days," the Colonel said. A heavy silence fell upon the group, broken only by the howl of the storm outside—a beast that suddenly seemed a mere pup compared to the looming threat. Tim's mouth hung open, his eyes darting between his companions as if seeking a contradiction in their faces. Paul clutched the AI module tighter, its holo-emitters suddenly looking like frail beacons in the face of impending darkness. Isaac's brow furrowed deeply, a look of disbelief etching into his youthful features. Tara, ever the most fearless among them, stood frozen, her breaths shallow and quick, chest rising and falling with the weight of the news. Her eyes met Greg's, reflecting a storm of emotions—fear, uncertainty, and a fierce determination that had always defined their adventures. Greg felt the weight of responsibility settle on his shoulders, heavier than the rucksack he'd hauled up the treacherous slopes of Ares Mons. The room, warmed by the heater just moments ago, seemed to drop several degrees as the reality of their situation sank in. They were no longer just explorers on a summer jaunt; they were watchmen at the gates, witnesses to an encroaching nightmare. The blizzard, once a foe to conquer, now felt like a protective shroud, hiding them from a greater danger that lurked beyond the stars. As the wind screamed its fury against the walls of the shelter, it was as though Ares itself bristled in defiance of the alien menace. "Four days," whispered Jacob, breaking the spell as he read the notes scrawled across the crates. His words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the ticking clock now governing their fate. Greg's fingers tightened around the radio, his knuckles whitening with the grip. The other explorers huddled around him, their faces a landscape of fear and resolve in the dim light of the shelter. “What should we do, Sir?” Greg asked, the words escaping his lips like soldiers marching into an unknown battle. The static from the radio filled the room, crackling with urgency as they awaited a response. The Colonel’s voice cut through the tension, “We’ve been trying to get an observation team on top of the mountain, but the blizzard has made it impossible to air drop a team." There was a pause, and for a moment the only sound was the howl of the wind outside, a reminder that nature itself now seemed to be conspiring to protect them—or perhaps imprison them. "I need you and your troop to be the eyes and ears of Ares, can you do that?” The question hung in the air, its weight felt by every young explorer present. They peered at one another, seeking silent affirmation. Greg noted the determination etching deeper into Tara's features, her stance firm despite the gravity of the situation. She nodded subtly to Greg, her gesture a silent echo of the Colonel's request—a call to action that resonated within each of them. Greg's fingers clenched the cold edges of the radio handset as a sense of duty surged within him. His gaze swept across the solemn faces of his fellow explorers, their youthful eyes wide with the dawning realization of the responsibility thrust upon them. He swallowed hard, his throat tight with anticipation and trepidation intertwined. “Yes, I think so," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, "but what exactly do we do?” The question was like a lifeline thrown into the swirling uncertainty that had engulfed them since the radio had crackled to life. There was a brief pause on the other end, the static hanging between them like a curtain veiling the next act of their unforeseen adventure. Then Colonel Roberts' voice returned, gruff and authoritative, slicing through their anxiety with a clear command. “How many of you are there?” The simplicity of the question momentarily stunned Greg. He blinked, the number forming in his mind even as the reality of their situation anchored itself ever more firmly. They were no longer just adventurers seeking to earn a badge; they had become an unexpected, yet pivotal part of Ares' defense. "Ten, Sir," Greg's voice was firm, his eyes locking with each member of the troop as he affirmed their number. "Very good." Colonel Roberts' tone held a thread of relief. "Have two on watch outside at all times. Stay hidden, your job is to watch and report, and set up the AI we sent you—it will help you identify enemy ships. We need to know when an alien ship enters the atmosphere, what kind of ship, what kind of weapons, and which direction they’re going. Do you understand?" Greg's fingers deftly punched the radio’s transmit button, a decisive click cutting through the tense silence that had befallen the group. "We can do that, no problem,” he declared with more conviction in his voice than he felt swirling in his gut. The others rallied around him, their postures stiffening with newfound responsibility. "Get set up, get your watch started, and report every hour," came Colonel Roberts' directive through the static-laced channel. "Copy that, Sir," Greg responded, before the radio returned to an unassuming silence. He turned to his troop, his gaze sweeping over their youthful faces, now etched with the shadows of duty. "Okay, let's organize teams for the watch rotation. Isaac, Tara, you're first up. Everyone else, let's figure out this AI module." The urgency of their task lent swiftness to their movements as they unpacked the equipment with hands that had learned to navigate ropes and carabiners, now adapting to the intricacies of military tech. Cold air seeped in from the tunnel they had carved earlier, but within these walls, a fire of determination kept the chill at bay. "Guys," Greg's voice began, hardly louder than a whisper, as he attempted to cut through the shock, "do you think this counts towards our Summer Adventure Badge?" His attempt at levity was weak but earnest, a bid to claw back some semblance of normalcy from the jaws of the unknown. #writer, #story, #SciFi, #Science-fiction,