Mars

Mars

Mars is the workshop planet — heavy terraform still in progress: atmo thickeners hiss on ridgelines, magnetosphere projects drink budget like thirst, and dome cantons open to thin red sky like a promise someone is actually keeping. Dust is weather. Patience is citizenship. The air tastes of iron and recycled courage.

A full planetary state in the Solaris Federation, Mars runs fleet yards, foundries, and the Tesla primary yards — the only fabs licensed to build Concord gate maintenance units, industrial droids, sky cars for dome traffic, and autominers that crawl Sol's belt seams while Corridor captains still swear by Extraction Frames in real space. 20-point residency is industry prestige: you belong because you build what the bubble runs on, not because the view is pretty.

Shift horns mark yard districts where welders share lunch with lawyers who enforce the Solaris–Hardfell Automation Compact — no autominer export, no clone fabs off-world, no apologies. The arm's machines have a birthplace, and it is not Earth. When a strike hits the primary yard, Luna hears it before the dust settles.