Mars Cats

Александр Макаров

Mars Cats

Mars Cats

A Warm Corner and the Smell of Glue

Rund adored his spot behind the radiator. It was always just warm enough for his fur to lie just right, and just quiet enough to hear someone whispering softly on the other side of the wall. He didn’t like fuss. He liked things to be clear: his bowl in its place, the litter box clean, and people not slamming doors.

Then they brought Lumina into the lab.

They set her carrier right next to his radiator. At first, Rund didn’t even look—just twitched an ear when the latch clicked. But then a voice came from the carrier, calm, as if she already knew everything about this room:

“It smells of glue here. And trouble.”

Rund turned his head at last. Two watchful eyes stared at him from the darkness of the carrier.

“It smells like a workday,” he grumbled. “And coffee. No trouble.”

Lumina stepped out slowly, stretched with a little crackle in her joints, and sat down as if she were the real owner here, not him.

“Trouble doesn’t come with a sign,” she said. “It comes with the smell of alcohol and with people starting to talk too much and do too little.”

Rund snorted. He didn’t like it when someone figured things out right away. But he liked even less that she was right: the people in white coats really were talking too much today, and a strange tension hung in the air—like before a storm, only without the wind.

He moved over. Just a little. So there’d be space between him and the radiator.

“Sit here if you want,” he muttered. “It’s warm.”

Lumina looked at him, as if checking whether he was mocking her. Then she nodded and sat. Not right up against him—cats don’t do that. But close enough to feel the other’s warmth.

That’s how it all began. Not with the launch, not with sirens, not with big words. But with two cats finding one warm corner to share.

Then the packing began. Boxes, wires, screens, and things whose names no one said out loud were loaded into the rover. And someone—Rund never figured out who—said:

“Let the cats stay here. If something goes wrong, they’ll feel the vibration first.”

Rund didn’t understand what that meant then. He only knew the smell of glue had grown stronger, and there were more people around.

Lumina pressed her side against his.

“I don’t like this,” she said quietly.

“Neither do I,” Rund admitted. “But we’re cats. We’ll make ourselves comfortable anywhere. Even if that anywhere suddenly starts shaking.”

And it did start shaking.

The launch wasn’t about stars or dreams. It was about the roar, about the floor slipping away from under their paws, about wanting to dig their claws into anything just to keep hold of themselves. Rund clung to the metal floor. Lumina clung to him.

At some point, the world stopped making sense. It became a long, dark, vibrating tunnel with no radiators, no bowls, no familiar smells. Only metal, cold, and a sound that made you want to hide.

And then Lumina did something Rund never expected. She started licking his ear. Right in the middle of all that shaking, when it felt like the planet had forgotten how to stand still.

“What are you doing?” Rund croaked, trying not to lose his balance.

“I’m giving you back yourself,” Lumina answered calmly, not stopping. “You’re not a piece of cargo. You’re a cat. And cats don’t disappear, even when everything around goes mad.”

And Rund suddenly felt it—yes, he was a cat. And if this metal box was flying through the void, he wasn’t flying there alone.

When the shaking finally stopped, silence fell. But not the cozy silence of the corner behind the radiator. This was a cosmic silence—empty, ringing. Rund moved his whiskers cautiously.

“Are we there yet?” he asked.

Lumina sniffed. Her nose twitched.

“Almost,” she said. “There’s… so much space here. And so few familiar smells.”

“I don’t like too much space,” Rund grumbled.

“Then we’ll make it smaller,” Lumina suggested. “We’ll make it ours.”

They found a corner where the metal still held a trace of Earth’s warmth. They curled up side by side. And while the rover prepared for landing, they just sat and breathed—one breath, then another, then another. Together.

The landing was rough. The rover hit, bounced, hit again—and finally came to a stop. It groaned for a long time, as if exhaling: “Well. We’re here.”

Rund lifted his head. It smelled of iron, dust, and something foreign. Lumina looked at him.

“Well,” she said calmly. “This is our new corner.”

Rund looked around. It was dark, cramped, full of wires and crates. But Lumina’s side was warm. And that was the most important thing.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let it be a corner. But… we need to make it so we can breathe here.”

He went to the paneling, sniffed the seam, listened to the metal clicking as it cooled. Then he started gnawing at it, carefully. Not out of anger. Out of necessity.

Lumina sighed but didn’t argue. She knew Rund needed to hear how the world breathed. Even if this world was strange and red.

After a while, a small hole appeared in the paneling. Rund stuck his nose through, drew in the air—dry, sharp, foreign. But real.

“Hear that?” he asked, turning to Lumina. “It isn’t silent. It whispers.”

Lumina came over, sat beside him. She looked at the hole, at Rund, at their new home.

“Then we’ll listen,” she said. “And we’ll make sure that whisper doesn’t turn into a scream.”

They sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder. Outside the thin wall of the rover, the wind touched the sand, and dust rose in a gentle cloud, as if the planet had gently stretched out a paw and said: “Hello. Welcome.”

How to Tame an Alien World

The first days on Mars smelled of iron, dust, and a silence that rang in the ears. Not the cozy kind of silence, where someone quietly breathes on the other side of the wall, but an alien silence—empty, like a box from which all living things had been shaken out. Rund didn’t like this silence. It felt like it was watching him, waiting for him to give up, to become just a shadow among the crates and wires.

He walked through the rover, brushing his side against the cold panels, muttering under his breath, as if deliberately scratching the silence with words. Let it know, he thought, it’s not empty here. There’s a cat here, and he doesn’t like it when everything is too smooth and too quiet.

“Well, you’re the boss around here,” he grumbled, circling the compartment. “I get it. Just don’t pretend we’re not here. We are. And we’re not going to become part of the paneling.”

Lumina watched him, her eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to figure out whether he was serious or just grumbling to keep from trembling. Then she said quietly, without any pressure:

“Are you making a deal with it?”

Rund snorted but didn’t deny it.

“What? It’s the master here. You have to say hello, cat style. Not with a paw, but with words. Let it know we’re polite. But stubborn.”

Lumina gave a tiny smile, almost invisible—just the tip of her ear twitched.

“Polite but stubborn—that’s us.”

They were learning to live by new rules, simple and heavy. They saved water, drinking it sip by sip, slowly, so each gulp had time to become more than just quenching thirst. It held a memory of Earth—of drops on leaves, of puddles after rain, of the joy of wetting your nose and then shaking the droplets off.

They split the food exactly in half. Even when Rund wanted to nudge the bowl toward Lumina—you’re tired, you need it—he didn’t. Because he knew she wouldn’t take it. Instead, she’d say he’d been gnawing at the paneling all day, he needed the strength more. Then they’d start arguing, time would slip away, and the cold would creep closer. So they just split it evenly. It became their small rule that kept them standing.

Sand got everywhere. It crunched on their teeth, settled on their black fur, turning them speckled, as if Mars wanted to paint them. At first, Rund was angry, hissing at the рыжая dust as if it were a living little troublemaker that deliberately got under his paws.

“It’s everywhere! No boundaries, no conscience!”

Lumina laughed softly, almost without sound, just her shoulders shaking a little.

“It’s not a troublemaker,” she said. “It’s the planet. It just wants to get to know us better.”

And Rund suddenly realized she was right. The sand didn’t want to hurt. It wanted to be noticed. So Rund stopped being angry. Instead, he started listening to how the sand rustled against the paneling—it sounded different every time. Sometimes like dry rain, sometimes like cautious footsteps, sometimes like a whisper: I’m here. I’m close.

He learned to tell the winds apart. The quiet one, just wandering around, not touching anything important. The middle one, the kind that tugs at your ears and whispers, Time to hide. And the angry one, the one that comes with dust, covers the sky, and makes the world small and gray. Rund would sit by his hole, close his eyes, and listen. If the wind started whining in the gaps, he’d call to Lumina in a short voice:

“Time to close everything we can. He’s not in a good mood today.”

Lumina would nod and start gathering everything that could fly away—rags, bowls, even the old nut she’d found in a corner and now considered her treasure.

Rund watched her carefully tuck the nut into the warmest corner and couldn’t hold back:

“Why do you keep dragging that thing around?”

Lumina shrugged.

“It rings. If I shake it, it makes a sound. And sound isn’t silence. I don’t want it to be just silence here.”

Rund looked at the nut, at Lumina, at their small, dusty, metal home—and suddenly understood. They weren’t just surviving. They were making life here. Grain by grain. Sip by sip. One nut. One conversation with the wind.

One morning, Rund woke to a strange silence. Not the usual one, but a suspicious one—as if the world were holding its breath. He sat up, moved his whiskers, listened. The wind was asleep. And when the wind sleeps on Mars, it’s gathering strength.

He quietly called for Lumina. She lifted her head, sniffed the air, her nose twitching.

“I don’t hear anything,” she said.

“Exactly,” Rund nodded. “It’s quiet. And that’s bad.”

They started getting ready. They closed the gaps Rund had gnawed himself, because now those gaps could turn into enemies. They stowed everything that could fly away into boxes. Lumina tucked her nut under the bedding so it wouldn’t be carried off.

When the storm came, it didn’t shout. It simply draped a heavy blanket over the rover, and the world disappeared. All that remained was a hum, dust, and the feeling that the planet was breathing right above their heads. Rund pressed against Lumina; she pressed against him. They sat side by side while the storm paced around, knocking on the metal, searching for a crack to slip inside.

“We won’t let you in,” Rund said quietly, as if the storm could hear him. “This is our home.”

Lumina rested her head on his shoulder.

“We’re good keepers,” she said. “We take care of it.”

The storm raged for a long time, then began to quiet down. The wind grew softer, the dust settled, and the familiar whisper returned in the seams. Rund went to the hole, stuck his nose out, and drew in the air.

“All done,” he said. “He just grumbled and left.”

Lumina sighed, not from tiredness, but from relief.

“So we made it,” she said.

Rund nodded and suddenly felt a little more space open up in his chest. Not because the storm was gone, but because they’d outlasted it. Together.

That evening, they sat by the wall where the metal still held the day’s warmth. Lumina took out her nut and gently rattled it—just a little, so the sound wouldn’t fly off into the darkness but would stay right there, with them.

“You know,” she said, “I think Mars isn’t so alien after all.”

Rund slanted a look at her.

“He’s just strict,” he agreed. “And he doesn’t like to rush.”

Lumina smiled.

“But he’s honest. He shows right away what he’s capable of.”

Rund wanted to grumble, Too honest, but he didn’t. He just moved a little closer, so their sides touched.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But now we know what to expect.”

Outside, the wind touched the sand again, and dust rose in a gentle cloud, as if the planet had sighed and said: All right. Hold on. I won’t be too harsh today.

Sand, Stones, and Freedom

Rund had been eyeing the hatch for a long time. It stood there like a heavy barrier, as if deliberately reminding him: it’s safe here, there are walls here, you don’t have to make any decisions. But Rund didn’t want safety—he wanted to feel the world breathing on its own, without the help of holes in the paneling. He wanted to hear the sand rustle for real, not through metal. He didn’t say it out loud, but Lumina saw it all in the way he froze by the seam, as if listening to the very edge of the silence.

One day, she just came and sat down beside him. She didn’t try to persuade him, didn’t try to talk him out of it—she just sat and said quietly, without any pressure:

“If you’re ready, I’m ready too.”

Rund slanted a look at her. In the dim light of the rover, her fur looked almost black, only the reddish specks of dust sparkled when she moved.

“It’s cold out there,” he grumbled, as if that were the most serious argument in the world.

Lumina gave a small smile.

“But the wind out there is real. Not the kind that sneaks through the cracks, but the kind that lives on its own.”

Rund sat there a little longer, as if weighing everything down to the last grain of sand. Then he stood up, stretched so hard that every joint cracked, and walked over to the hatch. The mechanism resisted, creaking, as if offended that anyone had remembered it only now. Rund pushed, braced his paws against it, hissed at the stubborn metal. Lumina didn’t get in his way, but she was there—and that was enough. When the hatch finally gave way, it swung open with a sound as if the whole rover had exhaled: well, finally.

Outside, the air smelled different. Not of iron, not of old insulation, not of wires—but of something dry and ancient, as if this scent had lain here for millions of years, waiting for someone to finally breathe it in. Rund froze on the threshold, drawing the air in so deeply that even his whiskers trembled.

“Well,” he exhaled. “There it is. The real thing.”

Lumina stood shoulder to shoulder with him. Her nose twitched too, catching the unfamiliar shades.

“It isn’t angry,” she said calmly. “It’s just big.”

And they stepped outside.

For the first few seconds, they just stood there, getting used to the open space. There was no ceiling here, no walls, no crates to hide behind. Only the sky—low and reddish, as if stretched too tight—and the sand that stretched in every direction like a sea without water. Rund moved his toes, feeling the sand sift between the pads, warm from the day’s sun and prickly, like a hundred tiny needles.

Then, suddenly, Lumina crouched down, hooked a stone with her paw—a gray one with sharp edges—and nudged it forward. The stone rolled, bouncing, and stopped near a small bump. Lumina looked at it, then at Rund, and something mischievous, almost childlike, flickered in her eyes.

“Catch it,” she said softly, but in a way that made Rund understand right away: it was an invitation.

He snorted, as if to show he wasn’t impressed, but he was already crouching, ready to leap. The stone rolled again, and Rund darted after it, racing across the sand, kicking up a cloud of reddish dust, and pinned it with his paw. Then he lifted his head, squinting in triumph.

A sound escaped him somewhere between a purr and a satisfied grumble—better than any shout.

Lumina laughed quietly, soundlessly, her shoulders just shaking a little. She immediately grabbed another stone, a bigger one, and tossed it not hard, just enough for it to roll nearby, teasing him. Rund took off again, sand flying from under his paws, and for a second he forgot he was on an alien planet, forgot about their supplies, about the gaps in the paneling, about everything that had forced him to be serious. He was just a cat chasing a stone across the warm sand.

They ran, they tumbled, they buried themselves in the sand until they were almost the same color as the planet. Lumina dived into small hollows, scooped sand away with her paws to make a tiny cave, and peeked out, her eyes shining. Rund rolled stones toward her, and she batted them away with her paw like a ball, laughing her silent laugh. They found strange stones—smooth, as if polished by the wind, with streaks that looked like lightning—and piled them into a small heap like treasures. And for them, they were treasures—not gold or diamonds, but things they had found themselves, with their own paws, on this red land.

When their strength started to fade, they collapsed side by side, breathing heavily, with sand in their fur and on their whiskers. Rund turned his head and looked at Lumina. Her nose was covered in dust, a tiny stone clung to her ear, and her eyes were shining.

“We did it,” he said quietly, not for Mars, not for anyone else, but only for her. “We went out. And we weren’t scared.”

Lumina stretched, shook the sand off, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I wasn’t scared,” she admitted. “As long as you’re here, it’s not frightening. Even if the planet is huge.”

Rund closed his eyes, feeling how the cooling sand still held the day’s warmth, how the wind stroked his fur—not angrily, but gently, as if it too were glad they had finally gotten out. He wrapped his front paw around Lumina, pulling her a little closer so there wouldn’t be even a millimeter of cold between them.

“It’s just us here,” he whispered. “No one else. Just us, the sand, the stones, and this strange, beautiful world.”

Lumina sighed, comfortably, like at home, and buried her nose in his neck.

“And that’s enough,” she said. “We don’t need anything more.”

The wind touched their fur, the sand whispered softly as it shifted, and there was no threat in that sound. Only space. Only freedom. Only two cats who had found their own little piece of Mars and made it theirs.

A Quiet Whisper Within

The day turned out calm. The storm had left sometime in the night, leaving behind a clear sky and sand settled into smooth waves, as if someone had carefully smoothed out a blanket. Rund sat by his hole, listening to the metal cooling, and thought the wind wouldn’t be angry today. He even allowed himself to relax a little—he stretched out his paws, closed his eyes, and was almost dozing off when he felt that something had changed nearby. Not colder, not warmer, but somehow quieter. As if the whole rover had held its breath for a second.

Lumina sat down beside him, but not right up close like she usually did—a little apart, as if she’d wanted to say something first, then changed her mind and decided to just sit there. She didn’t move; only her nose twitched slightly, catching scents Rund had long stopped noticing—the smell of dust, old iron, their own fur blending into one familiar aroma.

Rund opened one eye and glanced at her.

“What is it?” he asked softly, not wanting to scare away this strange quiet. “Did the wind offend you somehow?”

Lumina gave a small shake of her head but didn’t answer right away. Instead, she rested her paws on the cold metal, as if checking how much it had cooled, and then spoke so quietly that the words didn’t seem to fly into the air but settled straight onto their fur, becoming part of their little world.

“I’m not alone anymore,” she whispered. “There’s someone inside me. Very tiny. But real.”

Rund froze. Even his whiskers stopped moving. He didn’t understand at first what she’d said, because the words were too quiet, too fragile, as if they might shatter at any sharp sound. He slowly turned his head and looked at Lumina—and suddenly noticed something he hadn’t seen before: in her eyes there wasn’t tension, wasn’t fear, but a new kind of softness, as if she was already protecting someone, even though she didn’t yet know who it was.

He sat up, drawing his paws in, as if afraid any movement might break something.

“That means…” he began, but his voice caught, turning hoarse, so he tried again. “That means there will be someone else soon. Someone who will run across the sand and chase stones.”

Lumina nodded without lifting her head.

“Yes,” she said. “And they need it to be quiet here. They need the wind not to be angry, the metal not to creak too loudly, and for us to just sit and breathe.”

Rund suddenly felt something tighten in his chest—not from fear, but from a huge, warm weight, as if the most precious thing anyone could ever trust him with had been placed there and he’d been told: take care of it. He looked at his hole in the paneling, at the gap where he always listened to the planet, and for the first time thought maybe he shouldn’t listen to the wind today. Today he should listen to the silence.

He moved slowly closer—not right up against her, so as not to startle her, but close enough that Lumina could feel he was there.

“Then let it be quiet,” he said calmly, as if giving an order to Mars itself. “Let the wind walk across the sand on soft paws. Let the metal cool without creaking. Let there be as much quiet as we need.”

Lumina finally lifted her eyes and looked at him. A hint of a smile flickered in her gaze—not in her lips, but all through her body, as if she’d exhaled and realized she didn’t have to hold everything inside anymore.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “It matters to me that you know. Not so you can fix everything, but so you just know. And are here.”

Rund nodded. He didn’t say anything grand. Instead, he gently placed his paw over hers—not hard, just enough to feel the warmth that now held not only her, but someone else too.