The Convoy Run to Redhaven

The buzz of the machine filled the shop, steady like a rattlesnake. Torch leaned back in the chair, wincing but grinning, talking louder than the hum. I told him to sit still or he’d wear the needle sideways, but Torch never could keep quiet when the stories started spilling out.

Heading for Redhaven

“So there’s six of us,” Torch says, “rolling convoy to Redhaven. Crawlers creaking, bikes strapped down, the whole long haul across the dust. We’d been out there before, but this time wasn’t just another run. We were on our way to bring a new crew into Shadow of Death. Big deal, man. A whole colony about to wear the patch.”

The road—or what passes for one on Mars—was hell. Dust storms sideways, neon swamps sucking the crawler treads, the bikes coughing red grit every time we scouted ahead. By the time we reached the Redhaven gates, we were beat to the bone. And that’s where the Gatekeepers stepped in.

The Gatekeepers’ Move

Usually, they take your slate one by one, ask dumb questions, sniff your bike, then hold out a hand for a bribe. Not this time. One of them swept up all six of our slates in a single grab. That was the tell. We were burned before we even knew it. The place flooded with black-suits, mirrored visors, rifles humming low. In ten minutes we were shoved into cars and hauled off like cattle.

The Cells

Now let me tell you about those cells. Stainless steel shtters bolted to the floor. Heated concrete under your boots. A little button on the wall—you press it and a trickle of water dribbles out of a hole straight into the bowl. You want a drink? You’re staring straight down into the shtter while you cup your hands. That’s Martian hospitality.

Each of us had our own box. Steel door with three half-inch slits in it. You had to press your mouth right against the cold steel to yell across, then switch ears to catch what came back. Conversations felt like talking through a rifle barrel. Across from me I could see one of our own shifting in the slit’s glow, and that was enough to keep sane.

Starved Out

Funny thing is, the Redhaven boys—our soon-to-be brothers—tried to help. Left bags of food, sodas, even some snacks waiting for us. We saw the packages stacked outside. The guards never passed them through. Just scraps once a day, barely enough to keep a man upright. And don’t even talk about our expense money—it vanished, probably greasing the same hands that locked us in.

They kept us like that for three days. No showers, no real food, nothing but jokes shouted through slits until our voices cracked. Even jokes dry up after a while in a box like that.

Deportation

Then, as quick as they snatched us up, they marched us out. Loaded us onto some high-class hauler, polished and pressurized, nothing like our crawlers. Next thing we knew we were back in TB Mars, dumped at the port. Authorities shrugged, asked no questions, filed no reports. Whole thing swept under the red dust like it never happened.

The Punchline

But here’s the thing—they failed. Redhaven still patched over. Shadow of Death colors fly there now. The Gatekeepers thought they could choke us out, but all they did was write themselves into our legend.

Torch chuckled through the buzz of the needle as I carved lines into his arm. “Worth it,” he said, jaw tight, eyes gleaming. “Always worth it.”

Back in the Shop

I wiped the ink, told him to quit flinching. He grinned wider, like pain was the punchline. The boys listening around us shook their heads, laughing. Another night, another story, another scar added to the history of Shadow of Death.

And the machine kept buzzing, steady as ever, carving the story right into the skin so it wouldn’t get lost to the dust.