Boris TibanThe titanium staff was sharp and strong. Unyielding and deadly—like Boris himself. The smooth metal was so cold it would have stripped the skin off a human hand, but the plastic adin skin kept him from feeling anything. Crouching, Boris ground its tip into the loose volcanic soil, as if stabbing Mars. He pried up a heavy rock and knocked it aside.
The powder of the fine rusty soil puffed like wind-scattered flour. The high-altitude breezes on the long, smooth slopes of Pavonis Mons picked up the red particles and whipped them around his feet. The storm season would soon be here.
Through with staring at the ground, Boris stood up, brushing off his ragged jumpsuit. “We must go,” he said to Nikolas.
Nikolas squatted near the rock. In his hand he held a scimitar that he had fashi
