text: [Themes: sci-fi, science fiction]
  
  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.
  
  > find the Americans and seek passage to Earth.
  "Sorry!" I say as I back away from the man. "But I need to go find the American ship that has touched down nearby!"
  
  "What Americans?" I can't see his face very well, but I can hear the dismay in his voice.
  
  "Americans, yes. That's why I'm here: because of reports that an Earth expedition was operating close to here. Thank you for releasing me from the vault, but people are counting on me to relay a message!"
  
  The man seems confused by this news, which in turn confuses me: if we knew about this deep in the bowels of U.P., wouldn't it follow that the people on the surface would know too?
  
  "Where are Americans?" the man asks a moment later.
  
  "Not far. The coordinates are written on my arm."
  
  I extend my left arm to show him the numbers inscribed in pencil on my EnviroSuit: 48.269°N 225.990°W. He pulls out a datapad from a pocket on his hip and plugs in the numbers. Then I see a frown through the light reflections on his face shield.
  
  "What is it?" I ask, but instead he shows his datapad to one of his comrades. Their helmets nod in agreement with each other, but not enthusiastically.
  
  "We take you there," the man finally says. "But we must hurry. This is not safe place."
  
  He says something into a wrist communicator, and a moment later you see a bright set of lights approaching. It is a small rover, and it pulls up to where we are standing. The man who let me out of the vault hops in beside the driver. "Get in," he says.
  
  Everything is moving so swiftly! But it looks like I'm going for a ride as my first official act of freedom.
  
  > Next page.
  The rover bounces over the rocky terrain as we speed through the night. My still-anonymous savior is consulting the datapad in his hand and pointing to the driver where to go. I still have no idea who they are, but they are the most accommodating people I've met in years. So much helpfulness is difficult to process; was there some sign of danger that I missed? Have I put myself in the hands of people who intend to harm me?
  
  There is not much to see of the Martian landscape, not at this hour. The rover's headlights reveal a rock-strewn plain, but not much else. All I can tell for sure is that we are speeding away from U.P., as I can see no sign of its launchpads or drydock doors. Nor can I see any signs of an American presence: no lights on the horizon, no rockets poised for takeoff. Maybe they're farther out than I had been led to believe? That can't be right, otherwise my helpers here would be less willing to be helpful.
  
  Imagine my surprise, then, when the driver begins to slow.
  
  "Are you sure these right coordinates?" the first man says.
  
  How would I know? To me they are merely the numbers that someone else wrote down. I had no involvement in obtaining the information; my role in all this is that of the messenger.
  
  "That's what they gave me," is all I can say. "Are you sure you input them correctly in that little device of yours?"
  
  "We are here, and we see nothing," he replies.
  
  "Hold it," the driver says, turning the rover to the right and bringing it to a halt. "There is something here, after all."
  
  The three of us hop down from the open-air rover. I seriously hope the driver is mistaken, that these aren't the right coordinates after all, because all I see is some derelict piece of equipment that looks older than U.P. itself. My two companions step up to it without reservation and begin dusting sand off it, looking for identifying marks. I keep my distance, in denial that I came all this way just for... this.
  
  "Aha!" the first man says. "This is American."
  
  Resigned, I step forward to see what we have found. To me it is just a big, boxy contraption with a satellite dish and various other appendages. It has been sitting here for many years — decades, perhaps. It could belong to anyone; maybe it fell off a ship and was forgotten. But then I look where the man is pointing, and I see the flag. The red and blue have faded in the unending UV exposure, and they are now nearly as pale as the white, but the stars-and-stripes pattern is unmistakable.
  
  "Viking 2 lander!" the man says.
  
  "What year was that?" the driver asks him. "1976?"
  
  "I don't know who give you coordinates," the first man says to me, "but there are no Americans here for 150 years!"
  
  "Can you imagine?" the driver says, practically caressing the hull with his gloved hands. "This must be the oldest man-made object on the entire planet!"
  
  I share the first man's concern, though, and not the driver's appreciation of history. If these were the coordinates I was given, then this smells of a trap; somebody must have known precisely what was here.
  
  As if to confirm our fears, other lights suddenly appear on the plain — other rovers, closing in on us from four directions. We are surrounded.
  
  "Green's men!" the man with the imperfect English says, and even though I can't see any better than he can I know he's right.
  
  There is no time to get away. All we can do is wait... and hope that my friends here can convince the soldiers that they are valuable trading partners, and that I belong with them — that I am not what I really am, an escaped citizen fleeing the horrors of U.P.