text: 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.
  
  > You've come too far to get scared now. Enter the cafe.
  The cafe is crowded as always. Which smells worse, the food or the bodies of the people who eat here? But I have no cause to complain; my water-usage allowance is as limited as anyone else's.
  
  Axelia is sitting at the same crate we sat at yesterday. It is our favorite spot because it is near the entrance, where the air is somewhat fresher. But for that same reason, everybody desires it. Scoring it two days in a row is unusual.
  
  This will be our last day here, however, so what does it matter? I notice my friend has already ordered two drinks of Alga-Cola™, green and bubbly. Despite the excitement of the situation, I try to act naturally as I take my seat.
  
  "I have them," I say in a low voice, meaning the visas.
  
  But when Axelia looks up at me, it is not with joy. "I'm sorry!" she whispers.
  
  "I don't understand? Sorry for what?"
  
  "I had to tell them, otherwise they'd cut my hours to zero."
  
  "Tell who?" My confusion is genuine. Axelia would never turn on me! Right?
  
  "Betha, please... don't resist. Don't make a scene."
  
  There is profound dread in her voice, and my heart sinks. Two men approach our table — not the soldiers I saw, but men in suits I hadn't noticed.
  
  "Miss Willamon?" one says. "Come with us please."
  
  He grabs my arm firmly, and escorts me out the back of the cafe.
  
  So is this what it's like to be Disappeared?
  
  > Next page.
  Behind the cafe is a service corridor carved out of the Martian bedrock. There are three other men waiting for me there, none of them soldiers. I am not quite sure what to make of the suits, though; it probably means these men are from the government, but it seems odd for ranking officials to be in the business of "disappearing" individual citizens. That's usually the military's job.
  
  Nevertheless, two of them now have tight grips on my arms as they walk me down the cavernous corridor. We pass stacks of crates and smelly disposal vaults next to the service entrances to various shops on the promenade, as well as the occasional worker enjoying an absent-minded smoke break. None of them look directly at me and my stern entourage as we march by, partly because sights like this have become ordinary, but also because no one dares to draw the attention of the men in the suits.
  
  Nor do I dare say anything myself, even as I have a hard time maintaining the same walking stride as the two men who are all but dragging me down the corridor. This is not a fate I have any hope of talking my way out of. Now it's time to pay the price for foolishly considering the possibility I could ever leave U.P.!
  
  I have no idea where it is I'm being led. It doesn't seem to be the Government Annex, however. After circling what must be halfway around the periphery of the cylindrical city, the five men finally stop at a set of double doors. One of them opens it with an old-fashioned key, and my two handlers force me though.
  
  Inside I find a bare room with a single chair, into which the two men push me roughly. With all five suited men now standing in a circle around the chair, I feel more than a little afraid for my life. Hopefully, whatever they have in store will be quick and painless.
  
  > Next page.
  "So, you want to leave Utopia Planitia, do you?" one of the men says.
  
  I don't say a word. Any response would be taken as self-incrimination.
  
  "Yes, we know you do Miss Willamon," he continues when I don't reply. "Your loyal friend explained it all to us. You should aspire to be more like her. She'll probably get to take your job, now that you won't be needing it. Maybe even elevated to Tier Two status, just as a little something for her services."
  
  Still I say nothing. But at least now I know what Axelia's price was.
  
  "A moment ago you were quite chatty in the cafe, Miss Willamon. There was something of great importance you wanted to discuss with your friend. But now that you're here with us, you're suddenly at a loss for words?"
  
  So far it's just this one man doing all the jawing. He is standing directly ahead of me, but if he is the ringleader then I am a tad disappointed. For a government official, his hair seems a little unkempt and his suit is noticeably wrinkled.
  
  I keep my silence, though not just because of pride. This line of questioning is really confusing; I have no idea where any of it is leading.
  
  "What do you know of Gideon Redlaw?" he asks next.
  
  Gideon Redlaw? What don't they already know about him, and what do they expect me to say?
  
  "Wh-what do you mean?" I say before I can check myself. I still have the two visas Gideon procured for me tucked away in my overalls; if they searched me, they'd find them.
  
  "You know what I mean," is all he says.
  
  > tell him about the visas.
  "Gideon is just an old friend," I say. "Our parents used to work together. We were in school at the same time."
  
  "Aye, and now he's a well-connected government employee with privileged knowledge of an American military operation on the surface," the man says. "And he just happened to share that information with you, didn't he?"
  
  "Is Gideon in trouble?" I ask. "I don't understand what any of this is about."
  
  "Let's just focus on what you know, Miss Willamon. Show us the visas he sold you. We know you have them in your pocket."
  
  There seems to be no further point in trying to hide anything now. I reach in my pocket and pull out the envelope, handing it over. I never had the opportunity to examine them myself; it would've been unwise to open that envelope in public.
  
  But now the man grabs it from my fingers and tears it open. He pulls out two pieces of paper. "Coupons for Grady's Sausage Shack? Perhaps this was to be your celebratory last meal before leaving Utopia Planitia."
  
  A chill comes over me; my betrayal now seems complete. Gideon took nearly every solari I had to get these "visas" for me!
  
  > Next page.
  The man leans in close over where I'm sitting. "Do you know what Gideon Redlaw was really planning to do, Miss Willamon? Do you know what his real role is in the government?"
  
  "He works for the Registry of Official Documents..." I start to say, but I have a hunch my interrogator is about to tell me I've been misled.
  
  "My foot. Gideon Redlaw was seeking female companionship for Colonel Green. And not the voluntary kind, either. Our exalted leader likes it a little rough, you see."
  
  I do see, sort of. But who are these people, whisking me off to this secluded room to tell me all this?
  
  "Enough games, Cephis. Let's get on with it." For the first time, someone else speaks up, one of the three men who had been waiting for me in the corridor behind the cafe.
  
  "All right," the first man continues. "You probably have no idea who we are. We wouldn't be good at what we do otherwise. Let's just say that the five of us represent a very special subcommittee of the Utopia Planitia Chamber of Commerce."
  
  "The Chamber of Commerce?" I say. These guys own shops on the promenade? None that I've ever patronized, apparently.
  
  "In a way, yes," Cephis says. "Business in this so-called 'worker's republic' is not as good as it used to be. The purpose of our subcommittee is to investigate ways to, umm, create a more favorable structure of governance here."
  
  I look around at all five men. This is a resistance cell of some kind!
  
  "What do you want from me?" I say.
  
  "Well, Miss Willamon, when we heard about you we immediately came up with two potential roles in which someone like you might be useful to our, ah, investigation."
  
  This seems like a good moment to resume my previous strategy of keeping my mouth shut. Let Cephis here do all the talking; he seems good enough at it.
  
  "On the one hand, we've heard the same rumors you have," he continues. "About the Americans, that is. If not an actual military mission, then we at least know the coordinates of a probe they've placed not far away. Getting to the surface is not easy for anyone, but it's possible that someone of your physical stature could make the trip. It wouldn't be easy, and there would be no need for visas. But if there are people from Earth waiting for refugees to escape from our fine city, you'd get your opportunity to join them. So long as you carry a special message on our behalf.
  
  "Now the other role is certainly not something that anyone else here could do. But if you were successful, you could permanently improve the lives of everyone living in Utopia Planitia."
  
  "How so?" I ask.
  
  "Our mutual friend Gideon Redlaw has no idea you've joined us here this evening," Cephis says. "Thus you could return to the promenade as if nothing ever happened, and make your scheduled appointment. He wanted to see you off personally, right? But we all know what he's really up to. So let him take you to the colonel. Let you get close. By the time the night is done, Green could be dead and Utopia Planitia could be free again."
  
  "You want me to assassinate Colonel Green? I'm no killer!"
  
  "I assure you. We can make sure it's a bloodless coups, and besides, just a few minutes alone with that slimeball will melt away all your inhibitions."
  
  > You'll try and contact the Americans on the planet's surface.
  Perhaps I should've asked more details about how the subcommittee planned to get me to the surface. Instead of showing a guard an exit visa and walking freely out an airlock, their idea is going to require a bit more discomfort on my part.
  
  "You see," Cephis explains, "we have this waste vault that gets transferred to the surface once a month, full of scrap metal that Green sells to dealers over at the Schiaparelli settlement. But ever since his goons caught eighteen people trying to flee Utopia Planitia in a vault three years ago, each one gets scanned before leaving the city.
  
  "But you'll be inside a lead box, Miss Willamon. They'll never see you."
  
  He seems pleased with this little revelation, as if it were the cleverest idea he ever came up with.
  
  "A lead box? How will I breathe?"
  
  "You'll need to be in an EnviroSuit anyway once you reach the surface, so we'll suit you up before you enter the vault."
  
  "Great," I say. "That just leaves the sensory deprivation. How long will I be sealed inside this thing?"
  
  "Probably a good three hours," one of the other men say. None of them have introduced themselves; considering the nature of their enterprise, I don't expect any of them to.
  
  "Would you do this, Miss Willamon?" Cephis asks. He is posing it earnestly, like it is an actual choice I could make. But often all we have is a semblance of choice, when indeed there are higher powers herding us down the lab maze toward the hidden hunk of cheese.
  
  "Once I'm out of here, I never need to come back?" I say.
  
  "Only a fool would want to."
  
  Just a short time ago I assumed I had already paid for my salvation, only to have these people come along and tell me Plan A was a scam. With that experience still fresh in my mind, it's difficult to become excited about Plan B.
  
  "Sure, whatever," I say. "When do we get started?"
  
  > Next page.
  At least one of the men is thoughtful enough to give me a sedative before I am sealed inside the lead box, my life now utterly dependent upon the third-rate EnviroSuit in which I am encased. The thing has a musty smell, as if it has been hanging in someone's closet for a decade or two. I can imagine this once being a family heirloom, the suit in which so-and-so's grandmother immigrated to U.P. back in the day.
  
  It fits me well enough, though, and it doesn't seem to leak atmosphere. But between the suit and the lead-lined crate that entombs me, I can neither move nor see anything beyond the face shield. I'd be a claustrophobic wreck were it not for the "sleep aid" they injected into me.
  
  Thus the three hours pass without my active participation. I am only stirred awake from a dream I can't even remember when the lightless box begins to shake. Since I have no memory of the journey up to the surface, I wonder at first if the transfer is only just beginning. But then the lid to the box is pried open, and I see another suited figure standing before me.
  
  My body is eager to be free from this temporary prison, so I step past the figure. There is an unusual softness beneath my feet, and it takes me a moment to realize I am standing on the Martian surface — I am standing on actual dirt! If only I could get a better look at it; the sky is dark and full of stars. A few small beams of light are all that illuminate my surroundings.
  
  Then I notice that there is not just one other person here, but four. As I turn, my own helmet lamp reveals them one at a time. I cannot see faces, only the EnviroSuits as my light is reflected off the face shields. But if my suit is ancient, theirs look handmade — patched together from spare parts, no two alike.
  
  "You must be refugee they told us about," the first figure says, the one who released me from the box.
  
  "And you must be from Schiaparelli," I say.
  
  "Yes, we go to Schiaparelli!" he says, his English less than perfect. "You must come, before soldier come. No one allowed to escape from U.P.!"
  
  So far he hasn't told me anything I don't already know. But as his comrades begin to examine the other contents of the waste vault, my rescuer tugs me by the arm, as if to lead me away into the darkness. This wasn't part of the plan, was it?
  
  "Hold on!" I say, pulling away from his grip. "Where are you trying to take me?"
  
  "You cannot stay here. You come to Schiaparelli, with us!"
  
  It's an unexpected offer. On the one hand, here I am newly liberated from Utopia Planitia, with only the vaguest of ideas of what my future holds for me. This EnviroSuit and the clothes I wear are all that I now own... and here is an offer to join other humans, and go to a real settlement where people live.
  
  On the other hand, my goal has always been to find the Americans. That is why I tried to buy the exit visas from Gideon Redlaw, that is why the resistance cell posed as government agents and "Disappeared" me before the real government did. I carry a message from them, as well as intelligence on Colonel Green's military strength. They even gave me the coordinates of where the Americans have supposedly landed! It was never about going from one part of Mars to another; the idea all along has been to find the Americans and let them take me back to Earth.
  
  > join these people and travel to Schiaparelli.
  The man in the homemade spacesuit leads me through the darkness to a waiting transport crawler as a work crew rushes in the other direction, driving rovers loaded with crates of food. This must be the payment being rendered for the contents of the waste vault — and in that moment I realize one of the ways U.P. obtains its food supplies: the people of Green's Graveyard eat the net worth of their trash.
  
  "We must hurry!" my guide says. "The Colonel's men often make surprise inspections. You cannot be seen with us!"
  
  There is certainly a plain-spoken logic in his words, one with which I am not prepared to argue. As we run through the night, my helmet lamp shows the rear of his calico suit and the rock-strewn plain that surrounds us — the real Utopia Planitia, once named by long-dead Earth astronomers as the "Plain of Nowhere." The longer I remain in the open, the more the cold begins to penetrate the meager insulation of my EnviroSuit, even with all of this vigorous exercise. The surface of Mars is not a place where anyone can remain for any length of time.
  
  A ramp leads up into the six-wheeled crawler with its massive tires, each twice as tall as I am. We enter the airlock, and the man seems impatient as we wait for the chamber to pressurize, as if at any moment Green's men might pop out from behind a rock and ambush the crawler. His anxiety is contagious. It's been a while since I've had to deal with an airlock; have they always been this slow?
  
  Once inside the crew compartment, we remove our helmets. But I am given no time to examine my surroundings. "We hide you in here!" the man says, shoving me down a side corridor and into a storage closet that is only slightly bigger than the lead box had been.
  
  And here I remain for some time, as the crew extracts the scrap metal from the vault and loads it onto their own rovers. Then the crawler lurches into motion, rattling me inside the closet. There is no shouting outside the door, no indication that Green's soldiers have forced their way aboard in search of fugitives. Could it be that I am finally free?
  
  Just as I start to wonder if it's safe to leave this confined space, the door opens.
  
  "Congratulations!" my savior announces."You are liberated!"
  
  > Next page.
  It is a long journey from Utopia Planitia to the Schiaparelli Crater, stretching over many days and nights. I learn that I was rescued from the vault by one Zhou Lantian, who proves to be a chatty fellow once there is a safe distance between the crawler and the reach of Colonel Green.
  
  "U.P. is an evil place," he says. "We trade with Green only to help its people."
  
  "The other Martian settlements aren't all like U.P.?" I ask. Since Green took over, we've had no contact with any outside community.
  
  "No. Green is maniac. He keeps power only because he controls airlocks. No one leaves, no one allowed in."
  
  Once more, I have no argument.
  
  During my time aboard the crawler, I learn that Lantian and his ragtag crew live like nomads, roaming the barren surface of Mars from settlement to settlement and moving goods from one site to the next. Some of the scrap metal picked up at Utopia Planitia can be traded for a few barrels of hydrazine somewhere else, which in turn can be used to buy food at the next settlement. Schiaparelli is the largest Martian city, and the hub of all of the planet's commercial activity. That is the destination of most of Green's scrap metal. Getting there is an unavoidably slow process, however; the only way to get from one human outpost to the next is to creep across the landscape as Lantian does, in this giant all-terrain crawler. No one can fly, because the air pressure on Mars is too weak to keep manned aircraft aloft.
  
  After departing the vast northern plain of Utopia Planitia, my six-wheeled chariot works its way through the volcanic highlands of Elysium Planitia, with Elysium Mons an ever-prominent landmark on the distant horizon. Then Lantian and his crew stop at a small independent settlement located at the foot of Hephaestus Rupés, where another load of food and supplies is dropped off in exchange for kegs of water harvested from underground ice. Continuing westward, the final three weeks are spent making a tedious, meandering journey through the crater-strewn landscape of Terra Sabaea.
  
  Schiaparelli is located on the rim of its namesake crater, just to the south of the equator. I had always assumed it was just another ramshackle settlement like the rest, but during the many years I have been trapped in the bowels of U.P. the place has flourished into a vibrant city of half a million people. They all live under a series of pressurized domes that are large enough to include farmland and forested parks, as well as buildings and roads. Interplanetary ships stand ready to launch nearby, and people seem to be coming and going as they please. It is a vision of Martian life I never suspected was possible.
  
  Earth? The American expedition? Those are all forgotten as I wander the streets of Schiaparelli, marveling at its medley of languages. Soon after my arrival I learn that this is where UESPA has relocated its operations, and given my background I am offered employment in its shipyards more or less on the spot. for me here, and while I still think of U.P. from time to time, it is mostly to daydream about the mass exodus that would occur if the suppressed population of that place ever learned, like I have, what Mars is really like.