text: [Themes: sci-fi, science fiction, dystopia, female protagonist]
  
  Bill Ingersoll
  
  Text © 2020 Bill Ingersoll, All Rights Reserved / Published May 2020 / Image source: goodfon.com
  
  > Next page.
  And here we are, the red planet
  
  Craters cross the skyline
  
  A sleep sack in a bivouac
  
  And a Kerouac sense of time
  
  Oh, and we think about the old days
  
  Of green grass, sky, and red wine
  
  Should've known it's so fragile
  
  Avoided this one-way flight
  
  —— Pearl Jam
  
  > read the Tiny 'Topia Version
  Mars: small, naturally lifeless. Maybe water once flowed across its red rocks, and maybe microbes once dreamed of a Martian evolution. But then its molten core hardened into an icy stone and solar winds blew away its atmosphere. None of that can ever come back.
  
  People came anyway. I wish they hadn't. There was nothing here, and many of them left.
  
  My parents were among those who came, back in '04 to work for UESPA, although they didn't come together. They traveled on separate projects and fell in love on their lunch breaks. U.P. was a nice place then, they said. Everything clean and new, all to attract the best engineers and build the best ships. Io, Ganymede: those were the real goals; Mars was merely a waypoint.
  
  Then Colonel Green came in '23 with his delusions of Martian Independence: goons seizing UESPA property, closing access to the launchpads, no one allowed to leave. "Just like George Washington dumping coffee into San Francisco Bay!" Green gloated to adoring crowds. "No taxation, even with representation!" Thunderous applause, though much of it was canned.
  
  My parents, loyal UESPA employees, went missing soon thereafter. My brother, too. That leaves me, Betha Willamon, the last of my clan I guess — alone in a cylindrical city of thousands, Green's Graveyard. Stacked into cramped boxes, expected to be grateful we can still buy the basics — but each of us wishing deep down for blue sky, green grass, and red wine.
  
  > Next page.
  Dinnertime is often spent with my good friend, Axelia Nightjar. She has little, too. We meet at a cafe on the main promenade: overturned crates with tablecloths, cheap food. There are always many people here.
  
  "They cut my hours again," she says. "No market for the Charon-class cruisers."
  
  "Just like Green to kick out UESPA and still expect UESPA contracts," I say. "Less pay, too?"
  
  "It was already too little." She stares into her food. "Work seems so pointless."
  
  "People would leave, but the government doesn't allow it. We are like slaves, our lives dedicated to the increased wealth of Colonel Green."
  
  Axelia looks nervous, but not because of diminished wages. "Betha, you talk like your brother!"
  
  The Disappeared, she means: loud noises in the night, shouts of angry men, the sound of struggle, a limp body dragged away. Then silence. She is a sister of the Disappeared, like you. She knows the dread of not knowing someone's fate. Like you.
  
  "Best you keep your voice down, Axelia. Ears everywhere."
  
  She seems frustrated with me. Why? I wish to help her.
  
  "Best you keep your eyes forward, Betha! You'll get us both Disappeared!"
  
  "Don't you dream of escape?"
  
  "To where?"
  
  "To fresh air, abundant opportunity," I say. What I mean, but can't say aloud: To Earth.
  
  "What would be the point of dreaming about what no one can have?" is all she says.
  
  > tell Axelia about the rumors of a possible escape.
  I can only tell her what I heard from Gideon Redlaw last Tuesday: the U.S. Space Force has landed nearby, aboveground on the Martian plain. Ostensibly, the Americans are here to conduct scientific research in international territory, but everybody knows they come to spy on Green. Escaped U.P. citizens would be most welcomed, both as valuable informants and as useful PR tools to persuade hearts and minds.
  
  "They will only be here for three days," I say. "We must go to them; if they came here, it would provoke war."
  
  "Really, Betha, it is as easy as all that? Just walk out an airlock, hitch a ride on a rocket?"
  
  "Obviously, no, it wouldn't be easy. But I have set aside a few extra solaris. I can afford to buy an exit visa for both of us."
  
  My best friend looks at me with... disbelief, perhaps? She is difficult to read right now.
  
  "Where do you buy visas?" she says. "Who sells them? None of this sounds right."
  
  "It's best I not say. But what do you have left here, on Mars? What will U.P. ever do for either of us? We've been close ever since we were children, and now I want to help you achieve something better."
  
  "I don't know...."
  
  "Please?"
  
  "When would we need to leave?"
  
  "Tomorrow night."
  
  "Can I have time to think? It is a big decision."
  
  "Of course, Axelia. But I need to know by 0900. It will take time to procure the visas."
  
  > Next page.
  At night I dream of escape: of the American military team that is now just a few kilometers away on the surface, of the ship that will rocket me away from this place. I float in microgravity, looking back at Mars through a viewport as the ship begins a slingshooting orbital pattern that will propel us swiftly back to Earth. Well, not back for me, because I've never been before.
  
  And then I am still floating, but this time in a lake surrounded by forested mountains, as a gentle rain falls from above. I am on my back, arms outstretched, the smell of smoke reaching my nose: not the putridity of smoldering trash that one is apt to smell here, but the clean aroma of burning wood.
  
  Then I run through a field of grass, barefoot, no environmental suit. Wind flutters through my hair, and I know joy.
  
  > Next page.
  In the morning, Axelia rings me: yes, she wants to go. Awesome! So I in turn let Gideon Redlaw know. He is my source in the Registry of Official Documents; I will need two visas at the agreed-upon price.
  
  Everything seems to be going well, and all day long I am nervous but excited. I go to my job at the drydock, but it's not rivets I think about.
  
  The plan is to meet my friend at the cafe again that evening, the same as always, but when I arrive two of Green's soldiers are standing on the promenade, as if watching who enters.
  
  > It must be a trap. You keep walking.
  Paranoia is a natural byproduct of life at U.P. Everybody here is very familiar with it. Perhaps the soldiers are here by coincidence, perhaps Axelia sold me out. I can't afford to stick around and learn the truth.
  
  So I walk by the entrance to the cafe, not turning to look if my friend is inside. Instead, I notice the soldiers in the corner of my eyes, their heads turning to follow me as I pass. Then it's more than just their eyes that are following. I look back, and they are rapidly approaching.
  
  > try and disappear into the promenade crowd.
  The promenade is crowded, as the workers from the day shift filter back from the shipyard. Maybe I can lose myself among them, just another dirty and hungry face among thousands, looking to blow a few solaris.
  
  I break into a sprint, heading straight for the nearest knot of people. But I underestimated the soldiers: instead of pursuing, they pull their guns. The first shot hits a random woman. The second hits me.