Latif, even in his old age, carried the same quiet calm that had defined him since the days of the tent. His movements were slower now, his voice softer, but his mind remained sharp—a blade honed by decades of building a new world from red dust and determination.
He sat in his garden, looking up at the sky, thinking about the ships that were coming.
What could drive human beings to invade a world they knew was inhabited? A world populated by their own brothers and sisters? Why had they not communicated across all these years? Why this silence, and now this sudden, violent arrival?
Questions circled in his mind like birds that would not land. He was, perhaps, the most human person on the red planet—the one who understood best what was at stake, what was being risked, what might be lost if this encounter went wrong.
He turned to his son, Mokhtar, who stood beside him.
"What will you do?"
Mokhtar's face was composed, but his eyes held the weight of command.
"We will go out to meet them. Before they reach us."
Latif nodded slowly. "That is the right course."
In the United States, the team responsible for the invasion gathered in a secure room, watching screens, monitoring trajectories, preparing for the moment when their ships would reach Martian orbit.
The President appeared on the broadcast. His voice was steady, confident—the voice of a man who had never doubted himself, never questioned his assumptions, never looked at history and asked whether he might be repeating its worst mistakes.
"Earth struggles to provide resources for its people," he said. "We must go and bring resources from elsewhere. From outside this beautiful planet. The inhabitants of Mars know we are strong. They will give us what we want. And if they do not—we will take everything."
He paused, letting his words settle.
"Reports indicate they have become less intelligent. Remember—we are the originals. We are the source. They are only copies."
Adam stopped the broadcast.
His hand hovered over the remote, frozen in the act of reaching. The words echoed in his skull—the same confidence, the same arrogance, the same refusal to see what was standing in front of them. He had heard this before. Decades ago. When another president had announced the invention that would save humanity. When the world had cheered the arrival of the fourth gender.
He knew how that story had ended.
He turned to Rose, his voice heavy with the weight of memory.
"I must find a way to reach the people behind this mission. Quickly. And I need to contact the inhabitants of Mars. But I do not know how."
Rose looked at him, her face sad but not surprised.
"Here it is," she said quietly. "For the thousandth time, humanity tries to accelerate the end of life."
The Crossing Paths
Six days remained until the invasion fleet would reach Martian orbit. Everything was proceeding according to plan. Rockets armed. Weapons prepared. Soldiers trained. Everything the fleet needed to land, to conquer, to take.
Late that night, Adam sat alone before his computer. The house was silent. Rose was sleeping. He opened a channel to the American space agency, typing a request, a plea, a demand to meet with those in charge.
At the same moment, on Mars, Latif sat before his own device. His fingers moved across interfaces he had not used in years—technologies developed long ago for communication with Earth, technologies he had chosen not to activate, preferring to let each world live in peace, or so he had hoped.
His goal was simple: reach Adam. He did not know if Adam still used the same email address. He did not know if Adam was even alive.
But he had to try.
Adam was about to close his computer when a new message appeared.
Dear Adam,
I hope this message finds you. I hope it finds you well.
I assume you know about the mission launched from Earth toward Mars. We have learned of it here. I need information about the purpose of this visit. I want to reassure our people that our brothers and sisters are coming in friendship. I hope I have not ruined a surprise—were you planning to visit me? Have I spoiled the moment?
I await your reply. Please accept my warmest regards, for you and for Madame Rose.
P.S. — I forgot to tell you. I have a son. He has grown into a man. A scientist, one of Mars's finest. I named him Mokhtar.
Adam's hands trembled. His heart pounded. He forgot, for a moment, about the invasion, about the ships, about the six days ticking down. He shook Rose awake, his face alight with something she had not seen in years.
"Latif sent me a message! My God—how did he do this?"
Rose sat up, blinking, disoriented. "What does he say?"
"He has a son! He named him Mokhtar—in honor of his friend."
Rose smiled. Then her eyes narrowed.
"Does he know about the invasion?"
Adam's joy faded. "Yes. They know. But they do not know why. I do not know what to do. Do I tell him the truth? Or not?"
The Two Journeys
Two days later, Adam received a response from the space agency. They would meet with him. He packed a small bag, kissed Rose goodbye, and traveled alone to the United States.
On Mars, Mokhtar stood at the edge of the launchpad, watching the ships that would carry his people toward the approaching fleet. Their mission: meet the Earthlings before they arrived. Speak with them. Learn their purpose.
"Everything is prepared," he said to the commander. "Show no aggression. But be careful. Leave nothing to chance."
The commander nodded. "Understood, sir."
The ships lifted. The journey began.
That evening, Mokhtar sat with his father in the garden. The red light of the Martian sunset washed over them, painting everything in shades of copper and rose.
"The ships have launched, Father. I hope everything goes well."
Latif looked at his son—this man he had raised, this scientist who carried the name of the friend who had saved him, who had taught him, who had loved him across distances that should have been impossible.
"I have contacted Adam," Latif said. "He must have access to certain technology to reply. The kind they have at their space launch centers. I do not think such technology is available to the general public."
The General
Adam arrived at the American space agency. The building was vast, gleaming, humming with the energy of people who believed they were doing something important.
They received him like a hero. Like the savior of humanity. Like the man who had warned them, who had fought for them, who had helped piece the world back together after it had fallen apart.
A man in uniform approached—broad-shouldered, silver-haired, his face carved by years of command. General Tony. He extended his hand.
"Welcome, Professor Adam. It is an honor to have you here. Your support means everything to us. I am General Tony, responsible for the space invasion."
Adam did not take his hand.
"I do not support any invasion. Why this step? Why now?"
The General's smile did not waver.
"Did you not hear the President's speech? Nothing will happen. We are stronger than them. We will take what we came for."
"Why did you not communicate with them?" Adam's voice rose. "Why not establish a cooperative relationship? A partnership?"
The General's smile hardened.
"We will not trust the fourth gender again. They were created to serve us. They will serve us."
Adam stepped back. His voice was cold.
"You are wrong. They are human. Exactly like us. And if anything—they are better than us."
The General said nothing. His face did not change. But something in his eyes shifted—a flicker of uncertainty, quickly suppressed.
Adam turned and walked away, leaving the General standing alone in the gleaming corridor, surrounded by the machines of war, the instruments of conquest, the tools of an arrogance that had brought humanity to the edge of extinction once before.
Adam's voice was steady, but something beneath it trembled—the weight of what he was about to reveal.
"They have contacted me."
Silence fell across the room like a dropped curtain. The technicians at their consoles stopped typing. The officers in their crisp uniforms froze mid-motion. Even the hum of the machinery seemed to hold its breath.
General Tony's eyes narrowed. His hand, which had been reaching for a coffee cup, stopped in mid-air.
"Who?" His voice was sharp. "And how?"
Adam met his gaze without flinching.
"Latif. My old friend. From the fourth gender."
The name landed like a stone in still water. Ripples of recognition passed through the room—some of them had heard the stories, the legends, the tales of the being who had chosen exile over war, who had led his people to Mars rather than destroy the world that had created them.
"He told me they know you are coming," Adam continued. "But they do not know why. They do not understand the purpose of this mission."
Tony's jaw tightened. "And what did you tell him?"
Adam's shoulders dropped slightly. "I was not able to answer him. Unfortunately."
A breath escaped Tony—a breath that might have been relief. He had forgotten, for a moment, that ordinary users could not reply across the vast distance between worlds, that the technology for such communication was not available to the general public. Adam was powerful in reputation, in influence, in the weight of his history—but he was not, after all, connected to the networks that spanned the solar system.
Tony turned, beckoned to a woman standing at the edge of the room. She was tall, composed, her dark hair pulled back from a face that revealed nothing.
"Elena," he said, his voice returning to its usual commanding register, "accompany Professor Adam. Provide him with any information he requires. Everything he wants to see, show him. Everything he wants to know, tell him."
He leaned closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper that Adam was not meant to hear but did:
"Do not allow him to do anything. He is an honored guest. Nothing more."
Elena's expression did not change. She nodded once.
"Yes, sir."
Tony turned back to Adam, his smile restored, his composure intact.
"Welcome once again, Mr. Adam. Colonel Elena is at your service. Anything you need."
Adam looked at Elena. Elena looked at Adam. Neither spoke.
The machines hummed. The screens glowed. Somewhere, millions of miles away, ships were moving through the darkness toward a world that had once been home.
And in the silence between them, the question that no one wanted to ask hung in the air like smoke:
What happens next?