I stared at the canisters in front of , the Martian dust coating them like a burial shroud.
Fuel.
Precious. Scarce. Unstable.
The tal casings were pitted with age, corrosion eating away at their surfaces. So had dents, others had leaks. A few had rusted so thoroughly I doubted they'd survive transport, let alone ignition.
I didn't have the luxury of trusting them blindly.
If even one of these tanks was compromised and I hooked it into my ship's systems, I'd go up in flas before I ever left the ground.
I needed a test.
I grabbed a small container, one of the less corroded ones, and carefully extracted a sample. Then, working in the shadow of my ship, I set up a controlled ignition.
A small chamber. A asured spark.
I braced myself and activated the test.
The fla flared up—blue, steady.
A good burn.
Usable.
I let out a slow breath of relief. At least so of it was viable.
But not all of it.
I turned to another canister, one of the more questionable ones. Its surface was covered in deep scratches, the seal barely holding together. A warning sign.
Still, I had to know.
I repeated the process—collected a sample, placed it into the ignition chamber, and stepped back.
Spark.
BOOM.
A violent detonation rocked the small test chamber, the force enough to send a wave of dust rolling across the Martian surface. Even from a distance, I could feel the heat—a scorching blast that could have killed instantly if I'd been standing any closer.
I cursed under my breath, staring at the now-smoldering chamber.
That fuel was deadly. Unstable beyond reason.
I checked my remaining reserves, tallying up the numbers.
Enough to launch?
Barely.
Not enough margin for error.
Which ant that if anything went wrong during liftoff...
I wasn't going ho.
I inhaled deeply, then forced myself to move. One problem at a ti. I couldn't afford hesitation.
The next issue was my booster.
And I was out of ti pretending it could be repaired.
The right booster was dead.
That much was clear.
The explosion had twisted the fra beyond recognition, warping the structure in a way that even my best repair skills couldn't undo. If I tried to restore it, I'd be wasting ti I didn't have.
Which ant I needed another plan.
I needed a new thruster.
Not repaired. Replaced.
I tightened my grip on my scanner, eyes flicking toward the wreckage I had been combing through. There were dozens of crashed ships out there. Dozens of failed missions.
So of them had to have auxiliary thrusters.
I started moving before I could second-guess myself.
It took hours to find what I needed.
I had been right—so of the wrecks had auxiliary thrusters, smaller engines ant for course corrections, not full planetary launches.
But they were all different models.
Different sizes. Different power outputs. Different everything.
No two wrecks used the sa type.
I exhaled slowly, standing among the scattered remains of old spacecraft.
Rockets weren't ant to be kit bashed together.
Engineering didn't work like that.
Except—
I wasn't just any engineer.
Precision Engineering (Lv. 6) Activated.
On-Sight Adaptability (Lv. 2) Activated.
I crouched beside one of the thrusters, my fingers tracing over its mounting brackets, its fuel injectors.
Could I modify this? Could I make it fit?
I didn't know.
But I had to try.
I returned to my ship with the thruster in tow, dragging it across the sand with slow, careful movents. My arms burned with the effort, my suit compensating for so of the strain but not all.
I wasn't done yet.
Before I even thought about mounting the thruster, I had to fix the ship's hull.
It was barely holding together.
Every impact from the crash had weakened it, fractures spiderwebbing through the plating. If I tried to launch in this condition, the stress alone would rip the ship apart.
I pulled out the aluminum patches I had scavenged earlier. Torn plating from old hulls, stripped from other ships.
I had to make them work.
I set up my torch, heated the tal, and got to work.
Structural Reinforcent (Lv. 7) Activated.
I felt it—the difference.
The way the patches settled perfectly into place, the way the reinforcents held stronger than they should have. Better than the original plating.
By the ti I finished, I ran my hand over the sealed fractures.
The hull would hold.
Barely.
Now I had to know if the ship was even capable of leaving.
I climbed into the cockpit, strapped myself in, and took a deep breath.
I reached forward—
And flipped the power switch.
Flicker.
The control panel lit up for the first ti in weeks.
A sluggish, dying glow. But it was there.
Lines of code flickered across the navigation screen, the system struggling to reboot.
I leaned forward, watching the data scroll.
✔ Navigation Online – Status: Corrupted Data Detected
✔ Life Support Online – Status: Stable but Limited
❌ Communications – Status: Dead
I clenched my jaw.
Navigation worked—but sothing was wrong. The data was corrupt. If I didn't fix it, I wouldn't be able to calculate an escape trajectory.
Life support worked—but barely. The air was stable for now, but I was still on borrowed ti.
And communications—
Nothing.
No signal.
No transmission.
I couldn't contact Earth.
Even if I launched, even if I sohow made it back into space, I would be flying blind—unable to coordinate with Mission Control. Though even if I did contact them, it was a gamble if they would bother helping soone they sent to die.
I sat back, my fingers tightening around the armrest.
I had expected problems. I had expected setbacks.
But this—
This was worse than I thought.
I needed a transponder or a communications relay. Sothing that could send a signal.
And there was only one place left to look.
The wreckage.
Again.
I exhaled, pressing my fingers to my temples.
So many problems. So many things that could go wrong.
I needed a plan.
A real one.
And then—
Sothing clicked.
A shift in my thoughts. A familiar calculation, a feeling I hadn't used in months.
Strategist (Lv. 4) Activated.
A map unfolded in my mind.
Paths. Variables. Probabilities.
I could do this.
I knew what I had to do.
I just had to move fast.
10 days left.
No more ti to waste.
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