The tall, blue graphene sails of the storm baffles vibrated in shimmering ripples as the winds railed against them. Electricity sparked an erratic light show on the fabric, and even through his suit, Mason Gheitley could hear the sand on the sails hiss through his teeth. Mount Olympus was above him, somewhere, but he couldn’t see any hint of it—the sky was that dark. At least the rads were dropping, and his suit could vent what it had absorbed. Each year, the storms bit down harder. Rebel terraformers were still pumping water vapor and CFCs into the air, in spite of the anti-terraforming laws. Still fighting on the wrong side of an old war, their attempts to thicken the air made the storms worse. As a Redpaw Enforcer, his job had been to hunt down and destroy the Rebels’ pump houses, but after tonight, he would be in the Advanced Scouts, hunting the Rebels themselves. He leaned against one of the sails’ struts. His heads-up display read only 87:17, barely ten centisols past dusk.
