Antares slipped down the scuffed kitchen floor before sunrise. He wanted the warrior of Scorpius as his second-in-command, but every door he had knocked on stayed shut. So tonight he would try a door no one else had thought of. He carried his rover-shaped communicator under one arm. Its layered antennae bumped against his ribs as he moved past the tall mechman gate that marked his captain's territory. He did not wake him. This trip was his alone. The beacon dish waited where he had hidden it, huge and curved, pointed up past the ceiling stars. Antares climbed onto its base and powered the rover unit. A small screen blinked blue. He aimed the dish, held his breath, and whispered a call toward Mars. For a long minute, nothing. Then the screen filled with slow, scrolling words. The Mars Rovers answered. They had watched the warrior from far above. They told him she did not want gifts, or fights, or messengers. She wanted someone who had crossed something hard to reach her. Antares pressed his palm against the cold metal. He asked them to send him proof he had been there. Moments later, a slab of cracked Martian track tumbled from a side hatch, dusty and real. He picked it up. It was heavier than he expected. He climbed down with the stone tucked under his coat. The kitchen was still quiet. He had his answer now, and a piece of Mars to carry it. The old plans were dead. A new one had just begun.