The morning broke gray, silent, and piercingly cold. Dmitry woke with the lingering sensation of having slept in a bunker. But as soon as he opened his eyes, the reality of two moons and a dead ether crashed down on him with renewed force. He wasn’t on Earth anymore. But Earthly habits remained.

  The first thing Dmitry reached for wasn't a coffee maker; it was the gun safe integrated into the headboard. His finger pressed against the biometric scanner. Beep. The safe opened with a soft hydraulic sigh. Dmitry pulled out a Benelli M4 Super 90. An Italian semi-automatic masterpiece, a classic of the US Marine Corps. Heavy, predatory, and stoked with Brenneke slugs.

  "We’re sleeping together now, girl," he muttered, thumbing the safety. He leaned the weapon against the navigator’s table by the exit—positioned to be grabbed in a heartbeat.

  Then came the coffee. A strong, double espresso. While the machine whirred, Dmitry grabbed his rugged Panasonic Toughbook, synced to the Ark’s central computer. A detailed 3D diagnostic of the rover flickered onto the screen. Plenty of green zones, a few yellows, and one glaring red.

  "Alright," Dmitry took a long sip. "Morning rounds."

  He pulled on a clean fleece jacket, dry tactical pants, and laced up his Lowa boots. He hit the airlock button. The door slid aside, and Dmitry stepped onto the retractable porch platform.

  A hundred meters away, the Castle loomed. In the daylight, it looked both pathetic and majestic. The stone wasn't black, but a sickly, lichen-covered gray. Walls crumbled in places, yet the masonry—massive blocks fitted without mortar—commanded respect. Dmitry’s gaze swept the ramparts. Movement. A head in a leather helmet flashed atop a dilapidated corner tower. Someone was watching. Dmitry pointedly did not wave. He descended the ladder, holding the tablet in his left hand, keeping his right hand near his hip—inches from his knife, and two steps from the shotgun in the doorway.

  "Let's see what this trip cost you," he told the machine.

  The Ark stood in the center of a clearing overgrown with stiff brush, looking like a stray from a future century. It was a masterpiece of engineering, built on a MAN KAT1 8x8 military chassis. Twelve meters long, nearly four meters high. Eight massive wheels, each as tall as a man, shod in Michelin 16.00 R20 XZL tires on beadlock rims.

  Right now, the white beauty looked like a veteran of a tank breakthrough. Dmitry walked to the front.

  "Bumper..." He ran a finger along the massive steel channel. The Raptor polyurea coating was scraped to the bare metal in three places—souvenirs from ramming through the undergrowth. "We'll touch it up. Not fatal."

  He crouched to inspect the undercarriage. Here, engineering chaos reigned. Axles, driveshafts, and suspension arms were plastered in a thick, greasy clay that had dried into concrete overnight.

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  "Air bags..." Dmitry checked the tablet. "Circuit pressure is nominal. No leaks." The engine sump guard—an 8mm titanium plate—bore a deep gouge from an impact with a sunken log. "It held," he nodded. "Titanium vs. Alien Log. 1:0."

  He moved to the left side. The living module was a work of art in itself: 80mm sandwich panels (fiberglass–polyurethane–fiberglass) designed to withstand -50°C to +50°C. The glossy white surface was now marred by long, ugly stripes from branches.

  "Polishing won't save that," Dmitry sighed. "Call it war paint."

  He looked up at the roof’s forest of antennas and sensors. His heart sank.

  "Son of a..." The HF whip antenna was snapped at the base, dangling by a single wire and tapping sadly against the hull. Next to it, the weather station had been mauled; the anemometer spinner was simply gone, sheared off.

  "Minus comms, minus weather," he logged into the tablet. "I can swap the antenna from the spares; the anemometer... to hell with it. I'll lick my finger."

  He circled to the stern. The dirtiest spot. The hydraulic platform for the KTM 500 EXC motorcycle was buried under five centimeters of muck. The rear-view cameras were blind, caked solid. The parking sensors would be screaming bloody murder if he tried to reverse now.

  Dmitry glanced back at the castle. There were two of them on the wall now. The one in the helmet, and another in a long, dark cloak. They stood as still as statues, staring. He felt their gaze like a weight on his spine. What do you see? he thought. A White Dragon? A demonic iron wagon?

  He returned to the open generator hatch. In yesterday’s rush, he’d been sloppy with the fuel; the filler neck was stained, and dust had already crusted over the spill.

  "Sloppy," he grimaced.

  He stepped back inside. The interior of the Ark was a stark contrast to the primitive world outside, but disorder had crept in here too. He entered the "holy of holies"—the technical bay behind the cab. Here, behind transparent panels, beat the heart of the house. Three Victron Energy inverters hummed, converting 24V DC to 220V AC. The LiFePO4 battery bank—a half-ton cabinet—showed a 40 kWh capacity. Dmitry checked the monitor. Charge: 82%. Solar input: 0 A (overcast/dirt). Consumption: 600 W (fridge, electronics).

  "Negative energy balance," he noted. "I'll be burning diesel for the generator every day if the sun stays hidden. And the sun looks like a rare guest here."

  In the salon, the teak parquet—his pride—was smeared with gray streaks of dried mud. The carbon-filtered air system had scrubbed the swamp stench, but the phantom smell of slime remained.

  Dmitry sat on the sofa, resting the tablet on the walnut table. The task list was daunting:

  

  
1. 
   
     Exterior Wash. Knock off the clay before it messes with wheel balance and axle cooling. (Need the Karcher; hate to waste tank water, but the river is a risk).
   
     


  
2. 
   
     Antenna Repair. Roof work.
   
     


  
3. 
   
     Sensor Maintenance. Alcohol wipes for all optics.
   
     


  
4. 
   
     General Interior Cleaning.
   
     


  
5. 
   
     BTL Reactor Check. Inspect the hopper and auger for clogs.
   
     


  

  "Three hours, minimum," Dmitry summarized. "And all of it under the watchful eyes of the front-row audience."

  He looked out the window. The figures on the wall hadn't moved. Dmitry patted the receiver of his shotgun.

  "Alright. First the cleaning, then the diplomacy. If they want to get acquainted, they can come to me. I’ll be ready."

  He unzipped his jacket. Paranoia was one thing, but he wasn't going to live in a pigsty. Not even on another planet. He grabbed a pack of disposable white coveralls and a box of auto-chemicals. The day began with a big wash.

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