text: [Themes: sci-fi, female protagonist]
  
  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 Expanded 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. Like me, she has little reason to hope for a brighter future here in U.P. 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. "There's no market for the Charon-class cruisers. That's the excuse they gave us."
  
  "Just like Green to kick out UESPA and still expect UESPA contracts," I say, doing my best to keep my voice low. "Did they cut your pay, too?"
  
  "Not that it matters. I was already getting next to nothing." She stares into her food. "Work seems so pointless."
  
  "What do you mean?" Not that I don't already know, but I'd like my friend to articulate her own situation.
  
  "I mean, they ask us to work harder, build more ships," she says, but she is nervous, her eyes darting from side to side as if to see who might be watching. "So we do, hoping that might give us a little more money. Then, maybe, you know, we might be able to improve our situation, like the Tier One and Tier Two employees got to do. But then the contract gets canceled and we get less pay, not more."
  
  "Even if the Charon contract hadn't been canceled," I say, "you know as well as I do that Green and all his cronies would have pocketed the profit."
  
  She doesn't respond. Perhaps I've miscalculated; instead of engaging with Axelia conspiratorially, like sisters with a secret, I seemed to have made her feel more hopeless.
  
  "People would leave," I continue, hoping to lead her to the same natural conclusion I have drawn, "but the government doesn't allow it. We are like slaves, our lives dedicated to increasing the wealth of Colonel Green."
  
  Axelia looks at you horrified, but not because of her newly 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."
  
  "Best you keep your eyes forward, Betha! You'll get us both Disappeared!" She seems frustrated with me. Why? I wish to help her.
  
  "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 have come to spy on Green. Escaped U.P. citizens would be most welcomed, both as valuable informants and as useful PR tools in the effort 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.
  Nighttime in U.P. is filled with anxiety. Usually I am curled up in my cot, hoping that the sounds of boots storming up the stairway outside my living pod's door are not Green's soldiers coming for me, hoping that the woman I hear screaming down the hall isn't being dragged from her children, hoping that the sounds of gunshots don't mean that someone has just been killed.
  
  But tonight 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 dream that I am floating in microgravity, looking back at Mars through a viewport, the ship beginning a slingshot orbital pattern that will allow us to accelerate to interplanetary speeds and propel ourselves swiftly back to Earth. Well, it wouldn't be 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 Drydock 12; unlike Axelia, my contract has not yet been canceled, therefore we are still expected to work long hours. These are not UESPA vessels, however, but a corporate contract for eight ships, each named after one of the "acquisitive virtues": Industry, Perseverance, Unanimity, Frugality, and so forth. We are still early in the contract, putting the finishing touches on what will be the third ship in the series, the one to be named Enterprise. The terms of the contract mean we can expect twelve-hour days for the foreseeable future; some of my more naive coworkers smile when they calculate the extra solaris they think will be their reward, even though none of us has been paid anything extra yet.
  
  Today, though, it's not rivets I think about, but what the future holds for me.
  
  The plan is to meet my friend at the cafe again that evening, the same as always. At quitting time I queue up with all the other gray-clothed workers as the Foremen review our individual production records for the day and approve each employee for departure; those who fell short of their quotas will be required to work an extra shift. I know not to look up when a Foreman reviews my logs. Only four above minimum, Willamon! Were you daydreaming all day? You're clear for today, but expect Corrective Action in the morning. Next!
  
  I bolt down the long set of stairs leading down to the promenade, the two visas hidden in an inside pocket in my street overalls, right where Gideon must have put them while I was working. The cafe is clear on the other side of the great underground cylinder that makes up what Green likes to call the "Workers' Republic of Utopia Planitia." But when I arrive two soldiers in starched uniforms are standing just outside the doors, 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. I try to appear as casual as possible as I pass the soldiers, as if they don't concern me and I shouldn't concern them.
  
  The truth, however, is that I am watching them in my peripheral vision for any sign of movement. What I see are their heads turning to follow me as I pass. Am I the suspect they have been sent here to detain? Am I just a pretty bit of scenery to them, worth an extended look?
  
  Then it's more than just their eyes that are following. I look back, and they are rapidly approaching, their eyes focused directly on me.
  
  > try and disappear into the promenade crowd.
  The promenade is crowded, as the workers from Drydock 6 filter back from the shipyard at the conclusion of their own shift. They all wear the same gray overalls as me, the same as all workers in U.P. 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.
  
  "Halt!"
  
  If I hadn't gotten their attention before, the act of running has certainly done the trick now. Because as everybody knows, only guilty workers run.
  
  But I am seeking the safety of the mob; if the two soldiers want me, they'll need to methodically sift through the entire day crew from Drydock 6. It is more likely they'll decide I'm not worth the effort.
  
  However, it turns out I have underestimated the soldiers: instead of pursuing, they pull their guns. The first shot hits a random woman. The second hits me.