Brig squinted down at the needle, trying to get the thread through the hole.

“How long, daya think?” Hets asked.

Brig shook her head.

Dark. Everything was always dark. Red dust on the outside of the dome, a local decade’s worth of cigarette smoke from the inside. But now, well, no more cigarettes, sure enough. Some real nicotine fiends had even licked the tar stains off the dome walls on the edge of the city; nothing else in the dome had ever created smoke. But that happened years ago, during the first riots and bouts of PTSD. She could see the line of tongue marks on the dome from her stall, cloudy lines marring the outside view. Maybe if they still had civil services, somebody would have cleaned it up. But those had ended a long time ago too. And none of the collectives really had civic beauty at the top of their lists.

“How long, girl?” Hets asked again.

“Tomorrow,” Brig told the old woman. “I’ll have it done tomorrow.” Her best dress, she said. Likely the only one left in the dome. Most wore the surplus coveralls the miners left behind. Brig would fix the frock up good, but this light made it difficult to see her work.

Hets wandered off to her own stall, and Brig continued to try to thread the needle.

Back in the day, before the last of Mar’s meager terraformed atmosphere had bled off, they could still go outside, and Brig remembered how bright the sun had appeared, even with all the red dust in the air. She thought it would have been super easy to thread a needle out there. In here, the sun just peeked through the dome, looking like a flashlight with low batteries. Brig moved her eyes from the needle to take in the bones of the city. She could see it rising up at the end of the alley of stalls where she worked, darker blotches standing out against the surface of the dome in the dim. Like everything else, it had started to wind down. Tarps covered some of the windows that had fallen out, and they fluttered in the weak breeze created by the atmosphere scrubbers. Where the squatters scrounged up the tarps, Brig had no idea. And really, why bother? No heavy wind, no rain, no reason for walls.

But who was Brig to talk? She went home to her own squat every night and made sure she locked the door.

She sighed. The city died around her, and those who could afford to leave already had: the mining industry VIPs, the people who ran the tourism, the Earthside militia. Ships rarely came anymore; the inhabitants made do with what they had, and entropy hung over them as surely as did the dome. Brig wondered what it would feel like to be the last one alive, surrounded by no life but the imported city rats, the roaches, and the skeletons. If everyone went before her, she had precautions to make sure she wouldn’t have to cope for long in all that loneliness.

Brig broke out of her musings and realized that business went on around her, people meandering from stall to stall, picking through the remains of their lives, looking for anything they could use. They ran a strictly barter system now, exchanging services and goods.

Brig thought about the dinner she would go home to: algae and mushrooms and freshwater shrimp. Yum. Same meal she’d had every day for she couldn’t remember how many years. A little seasoning from Earth used to make it better. Salt and pepper went a long way toward making Vat-grown shrimp edible. But the last of the salt, pepper, onion powder, cayenne… All of that used up years ago. At least the Vats still worked. No one would survive if they stopped functioning. The rats would last for only so long…

Israfel had called a meeting, so Brig would have to rush dinner. The slight dimming of the light told Brig that night came on overhead. Soon, the edge of Coronae Scopulus would block it out completely. Starlight didn’t penetrate through the grime on the outside of the dome anymore.

Somewhere off in the city, an airhorn sounded. That signaled the end of work for the day. Brig packed away her scraps of fabric, twine, and yarn. Textiles, her specialty. She lowered the shutter at the front of her stall and headed down the alleyway toward downtown. Others fell into step beside her, headed in the same direction. They concentrated in the old miners’ barracks for the most part. It meant funneling less power to the rest of the ruins. Of course, other groups had formed as well, and they created these neutral marketplaces for trade.

They conversed as they walked the few blocks.

Brig separated from the others at the front of her building. She opened the door, went down the narrow hallway, and entered her flat. It was little more than a cubicle, really, with a dusty, cracked window facing the wall of the dome, a cot, a IR range, a small cooling unit, and her pile of clothes. She sat down cross-legged in front of the range and switched it on, then reached over to the cooler for a ration of food, and threw it into the small skillet in which she cooked all her meals. She took damn good care of that pan. Not many remained, and no one had taken to patching the ones with dents or holes. The shrimp and algae sizzled as they cooked on the range. Not really hungry, she did this out of habit rather than anything else.

When the food finished cooking, Brig sat there on the floor and ate it out of the pan with her old stainless chopsticks. She remembered when her parents had given them to her, “adult” chopsticks instead of the sort-of-soft kid’s ones she’d had before. It meant she’d grown coordinated enough to handle them without taking out her front teeth in the process. She even got to eat some preserved fruit that day, brought up on one of the ships. She learned later her dad spent a ridiculous amount of money on the black market; she never thanked him. His bones now moldered on some trash heap outside the dome.
Brig finished her dinner and took the plate, carton, and chopsticks down to the communal sink at the end of the hall. She rinsed everything. Any food waste that went down the drain would feed the shrimp in the Vats. They weren’t allowed to use these sinks for anything else. It might contaminate the food.

Brig returned her pan and chopsticks to her flat, then took the carton to the basket by the front door where people on food assignment would fetch it and fill it again. She went back to her flat and locked her door before leaving; there were things in there she didn’t want her neighbors to have.

Israfel would hold his meeting a couple blocks away in one of the old neighborhood squares. There, a few automatic sprinklers still watered some plants, shade-loving specimens that managed to thrive despite the neglect. On a small, man-made hill, once covered in grass, Israfel held the collective’s meetings. They’d dragged old crates, trunks, and benches there from all over to create a sort of amphitheater. Why they didn’t meet in one of the old halls, Brig had no idea, but Israfel liked it out in the open. Open being relative here, of course.

Others already stood or sat in the clearing. She found a vacant crate and took a seat.

The seats around her filled up; about twenty people made up Israfel’s collective, most older than her. The members of the collective had made an agreement to stop breeding some local years ago, knowing they couldn’t sustain children in this environment.

Now only a few artificial lights on the catwalks high above lit the streets. The people couldn’t light fires; the atmosphere scrubbers couldn’t handle it, and it would consume too much oxygen. Plus, if they just started burning stuff, pretty soon there’d be nothing left.

Israfel arrived, placed a crank-powered LED lantern on the ground in front of him, and turned it on. Brig watched him, fascinated as always by his presence. His gray hair fell across the chest of his coveralls. His dark eyes pierced through the night; like most of them, he was tall and skinny, but he had a meat about him that only came with being born Earthside, something the years of their meager diet could never take away. Whenever he looked at Brig, she felt like the only person left in the dome besides him. Just him and her. She thought of all the screaming she might do if she ever got alone with him. Screaming in a good way, but he didn’t pay her much mind. She guessed he had more important things to worry about than a rangy slip of a girl who mended rope and stitched up seams.

“Well met, my brethren,” Israfel said in his deep voice as they all settled. “A few housekeeping notes only.” He smiled, his face pale in the blue light of the LED. “Our turn at the Vats will be coming up in three days. You will work your normal shifts.”

It meant work in addition to what Brig normally did in the market, but she couldn’t avoid it, not if she wanted to live.

“Efret has left us,” Israfel went on.

Brig figured he’d either died or joined another collective. They’d all pretty much hammered out their different philosophies in the last few local years, so it was rare for someone to leave. But Brig hadn’t heard any funeral announcements. Either way, it didn’t really affect her, except that a job might be open. She tried to remember what Efret did. Nothing she wanted that she could remember.

“Efret worked the catwalks. His position is now open.”

Oh, the catwalks, looking for hairline cracks in the dome and epoxying of them. Crap job, Brig thought. Dangerous.

“I’ll do it,” Spran said from nearby. An eager kid ready to help, afraid of rejection, only six or seven local years. They all did what Israfel asked of them.

“And finally – ”

“Wait!” someone on the other side of the clearing shouted. “Look!” Brig squinted through the dark, saw where the man pointed. Up. She glanced upward.

Oh, God! A ship’s searchlights tracked back and forth across the outside surface of the dome. Well near a local year had passed since the last ship visited the colony, and that last one only an unmanned probe from the mining company, requesting they return a few items it had left behind. No room for passengers.

This ship pointed in the direction of the hanger. Brig wondered if the doors would still work. The Martian dust had a way of getting into every little crack and crevice. It wouldn’t surprise her if they couldn’t get a tight seal on the airlock after they landed. In the darkness, she heard others running toward the airlock. It sat a few clicks off.

Israfel stood and watched the lights. Her eyes rested on him, expectant. What would he tell them to do?

“Let’s go then,” he announced and began walking in the direction of the airlock. The entire collective followed him. Loners, those not members of collectives, and members of other groups joined as they walked, all pondering the new arrival. Others beat Brig to the entrance of the airlock. They stood at the plexy doors and waited. Israfel and a few leaders from other collectives moved aside and spoke in low voices.

They all watched the ship enter the landing bay through the scratched doors. Then, the exterior gates started to grind and labor to close; Brig could feel the vibrations through her feet. Then came the hissing as air moved to fill the hanger and equalize pressure. Finally, as they all waited nervously, the big plexy doors slid open. On the other side, no longer obscured by the scuffed doors, Brig could see the ship. It sure as hell didn’t belong to any Earthside militia. Too hodge-podge. Too small, probably too fast. And by God, too, too many weapons. Goddamn ship looked like a porcupine she saw on the Web once, bristling all over with cannons. Smugglers, she thought, or mercenaries. Definitely not a ride back Earthside.

The gangplank lowered, and all conversation stopped. They waited silently to see who would descend, what kind of people these would prove to be.

After a moment that seemed to stretch out forever, three people finally exited the ship. They moved toward the group slowly, projectile rifles slung over their shoulders. Misfirings in space obviously didn’t concern them, which meant they either possessed much skill or not enough intelligence to care. They wore light infantry space suits, patched and repatched, each from a different division or squadron.

The one in the lead appeared to be a captain if the rank on his suit gave any indication; Brig doubted that it did. The leaders from the collectives approached to meet the newcomers.

“We… ah,” the captain began. “Our intelligence told us this location contained no survivors.”

Survivors? Huh.

Israfel stepped to the fore. Being the tallest, the broadest, the most intimidating, they must have elected him spokesman. “As you can see, your intelligence was faulty.” He smiled. “But we welcome you to Coronae Scopulus Colony, sponsored by the Mars Mining Syndicate.”

An inside joke, that. Nothing had been sponsored their way in the better part of a local decade, but it was a proper, formal introduction. Brig still had no idea who these people represented. She would put salt on the fact that they stood for none but themselves.

“We are San” – he motioned to himself – “Tafi” – the woman to his right, small and wound-tight, like a hungry rat – “and Ell.” Ell stood an inch or two over Israfel but had spindly limbs like a spider. Obviously a deep-space, long-journey man. In fact, his face betrayed a certain amount of strain, like he had a headache. Brig wondered if even Mars’s weak gravity was too much for him. “We came…” San stopped talking and glanced to his right and left as if needing approval from his companions. “We came for a bit of respite.”

On the lam, most like, Brig realized. Probably fleeing from some asteroid hijack on their way to Free Europa or some such.

“Those who stay with us work with us,” Israfel stated.

San smiled. “We don’t work, but we trade. Got plenty on board likes of y’all could use. You feed us couple days, let us fix up the ship yonder, and we’ll be out your hair quick as a whip.”

Now came Israfel’s turn to check for approval. Brig watched the other leaders nod their agreement to the man’s offer. “We welcome you, then.” Israfel paused. “For a time.”

“Much obliged.” San turned to his crewmates. “Why don’t you get out the trade stuffs.”

Israfel and San wandered off into the darkness. The people moved forward tentatively into the airlock. They hadn’t had cause to open it in quite awhile, and the ever-present sand and dust of Mars coated the interior. Some shipping crates, holding parts for obsolete mining equipment, still stood stacked in a corner. Brig’s gaze moved to the ship. It couldn’t hold much of a crew, probably only the three who had arrived with it. She wondered what it would take to stow away on the ship or bribe her way on. But she also balked at the thought; Brig never traveled off-world. She knew only Mars and life under the dome. Could she even survive in space? With Earth’s gravity? Or in one of the sub-ice cities of Free Europa? She doubted it. Biology had created Brig to live here and most likely die here too.

Tafi and Ell came back down out of the ship pulling a cart after them. They’d stacked various small crates and boxes on the cart. They moved it out from the airlock, and the crowd followed.

Ell and Tafi started handing out stuff randomly to whoever approached. Brig got in line. After people received something, they’d go off in a group and trade among themselves for something else they wanted.

Finally, her turn came up. Tafi – who had a crew cut as severe as any man’s and a bright pink silicon ring through her septum – handed Brig a small jar. She looked down. MSG. She couldn’t believe it. Of all the things she could have possibly gotten, this was definitely the best.

“Thanks,” Brig whispered and shoved it into the pocket of her coveralls before anyone else could see. She stepped away from the cart and stood there for a moment. On any other night, she would have gone home by now, fallen asleep… But tonight seemed too alive; she had too much energy. She knew a place where she could go – Gil’s – maybe catch up on some of the gossip if it traveled just a little faster than she did.

She headed out across the city. Some of the lights that lit the catwalks overhead cast enough of a glow to see her way. She had to walk a couple clicks to get to Gil’s. Gil had rigged up, with some old equipment and an IR range, a sort of still. They used to get beer and whiskey from Earth, when the mine operated and the men earned rewards, but like everything else, that had run out a long time ago. Gil had somehow figured out how to turn some of the plants that grew in the squares around town, a good portion of algae, and some unknown source of yeast into a drinkable spirit. Brig didn’t go there often, but she knew tonight people would pack the place, and they would be talking.

Brig pushed past the people spilling from Gil’s door, scanning for familiar faces from her own collective. Gil’s had a neutral designation, like the market, and therefore people from all over the city congregated there. She saw one or two she recognized from the market, and after getting an aluminum cup of Gil’s Swill, as they liked to call it, she joined them.

Tig fixed watches, and Millie ran a library of sorts, trading out old books and magazines. The survivors had access to a few communal Web stations that still functioned, so it surprised Brig that there were even any publications on Mars, but Millie insisted some people liked to feel the pages between their fingers, rather than just watching a plasma screen scroll. Brig had never taken to reading, so she didn’t know one way or the other.

“Whadya think?” she asked as she squeezed down onto a bench next to Tillie and took a sip of her drink.

“I heard some talking already,” Millie said conspiratorially. “They’s pirates runnin’ from militia, no doubt.”

Tig nodded his agreement. “Sure ‘nough.” He sipped his drink, looked around, and bent his head. “Heard they’ve a seat open on that little hopper o’ theirs.”

“Nah? For truth?” Brig asked. Again, the idea of getting off Mars screamed for attention inside her head. But near a hundred people still lived in the dome, and most like she wouldn’t be first on anyone’s list. “Mayhaps we’ll hold a lottery, send somebody back?” She knew it was wishful thinking.

“Where they going?” Millie asked.

“Free Europa?” Brig suggested.

Tig shook his head.

“Earth?” Millie asked.

Again negative from Tig.

Brig thought hard about what she knew of colonies and settlements. “Just some asteroid, most like.”

Tig, again, moved his head no.

He’d stumped her. Where else was there to go?

“New settlement, other side o’ this damn rock.” His voice was real low. “They says it’s all shiny and clean, and the dome’s full of plants, and it’s none like this.” He leaned in closer. “Got some kind of grid keeps in all the atmosphere round about. Growing grass outdome. Regular ships to Earth. Beef.”

“Fuck no,” Brig whispered. She felt the small container of MSG in her pocket. Had there been steak in all those goods they passed out?

“I’d’ve read of it on the Web,” Millie said and laughed uncomfortably.

“Nah, all hush-hush.”

“Are we gonna move there, all of us?” Millie asked.

And then the words Brig least wanted to hear fell from Tig’s lips. “Different syndicate.”

Which meant they were, truly and totally, abandoned. Mars Mining had exercised their right to leave their property just as they had those crates of junk in the airlock and the coveralls they all wore. If another syndicate had opened a colony Mars-side, it meant MMS had given up their claims. No hope at all now, not that Brig had harbored much to begin with anyway. Nevertheless, she felt deflated, and she could tell Millie felt even worse. She held onto a little naïveté despite the environment, and Tig’s news had just stripped that away.

“Fuck,” Millie said. “Mayhap they’ll salvage us.”

“Tweren’t likely,” Brig told her. The new company could lay claim to the people and equipment should they want, but it might take more effort than it’d be worth. Besides, if the smugglers had thought the dome empty, most everyone else probably did as well.

Brig finished her drink and left, walking the streets. The skeletons of the high-rises behind her, once the glowing jewel of the city, the symbol of prosperity, loomed in her mind. She’d never visited a cemetery – they didn’t have them here – but she imagined it might feel like this. Dead all around but peaceful-like. She was resigned to this winding down, she decided. Truly she was.

Brig returned to her flat, stripped out of her coveralls, and fell onto her cot. Despite the drink, which she’d hoped would calm her a bit, her mind still raced. It took one realization to finally drift off to sleep: Nothing had changed. Nothing would change.

**

A soft tap at Brig’s door woke her. She thought for a moment then realized her food had arrived, just like it did every morning. Nothing had changed.

She fetched the carton from beside the door of her flat and put it in the cooler. Then she rummaged through her pockets until she found the MSG. She shoved that in the cooler too, wanting to keep it from the prying eyes of anyone who might visit or look through her window.

She wasn’t hungry now; someone would always feed her at the market if she wanted. She got dressed, went down the hall to the common facilities, and washed up. She had a few more days before she would get her shower. The leaders of the collectives strictly rationed wastewater, which meant the inhabitants only got one shower about every ten days. Using much more than that could cause the aging reclamation system to break down. It didn’t mater much to Brig. She didn’t sweat because the temperature was so low, and she never did anything really dirty.

On her way to the market, Brig sidetracked near the airlock to get a glimpse of any action going on there. As she walked by, Israfel exited from near the ship. He saw her and smiled.

“Brig, my dear.” He fell in step beside her.

She felt a warm glow rising up her chest. “Late night or early morning?” she asked.

A sort of shadow passed over his face. “Indeed,” he replied. He shoved his hand in his pocket and grasped something there. He didn’t appear to be his usual open, commanding self.

They walked for a while in silence toward the market.

“There’s talk…” Brig finally began.

“Bound to happen,” he said.

“Truth to it?” she asked.

“Depends on what you heard.”

“We dust, ain’t we?”

Israfel nodded and, without another word, headed down a side street away from Brig. She felt cold replace her flush. Something sure wasn’t right.

People filled the market, buzzing over new additions the smugglers had brought. Brig saw things she’d never seen. Overnight, her workplace had turned into something of a museum; people weren’t even trading, just showing off.

“What did you get?” Hets asked Brig as she passed the old woman’s stall. Brig shook her head and kept moving.
Brig threw the front shutter of her stall up and took her place behind, picking up the needle and thread and dress again. She tried to block out what went on around her; they didn’t realize that, as soon as the new toys and foods and gadgets became broken or used up, they’d go right back to living the way they had for a local decade: subsisting. Everyone’s good cheer meant nothing in the long run. Nothing but an illusion. She nearly felt sorry for those around her, those who thought their salvation had come at the hands of these bandits. She knew, deep down, that was what they would prove to be. Pirates, bandits, smugglers… She felt slightly nauseous and couldn’t tell if lack of food or disgust caused it.

She worked on the splitting seams of Hets’s dress.

The day seemed to slip away. People finally trickled out of the market, going about the jobs they were supposed to do. Brig ate some mushrooms, raw, from another stall. The sun appeared on one edge of the valley over the dome and then disappeared behind the edge on the opposite side. She finished the dress, mended some rope, and joined uneven lengths of thread onto one spool. She heard the airhorn sound and the market close up around her. But she didn’t move.

Full night had come on by the time she decided to close up. Everyone had abandoned the market, and rats scurrying about made the only sounds in the immediate vicinity. For some reason, she felt the need to pass by the airlock again, to see the ship. This time when she passed, Israfel stood there again, just at the gate, talking to the captain. She stayed in the shadows next to a building a few yards away, at first simply because she wanted to watch Israfel move, the fluid motion of his gestures as he spoke to the captain. Listen to the tones of his voice and pretend he talked only to her.

As she spied, though, what they spoke of drew her in.

“I’ve more, loads more,” Israfel said to San. “What will it take?”

Loads of what, she wondered. Then Brig saw what Israfel held in his oh-so-elegant hands. Old money, crumpled paper money, the likes of which Brig hadn’t seen in local years.

The money they’d all abandoned in favor of the barter system they now utilized.

“You know, to convert this to currency we can use, that in itself costs plenty coin,” the captain told Israfel.

“Just name yer fuckin’ price.”

Brig hadn’t ever heard Israfel so desperate.

“Two hundred thousand would cover the expense to get you Earthside.”

She gasped then quickly covered her mouth with her hands.

“We’ll leave tomorrow,” the captain concluded and turned away into the hanger. Israfel stood there and watched him for a moment, then turned and headed off toward downtown.

Brig couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Where had he gotten all that cash? It must have belonged to all of them; he picked it up and scrounged it away, just waiting for the opportunity to arise to spend it on something like this. She knew she’d thrown away the little cash her parents had left her, realizing it was worthless. She thought it had made it out to the refuse pile like everything else or gotten recycled, but maybe not.

Where Brig’s guts came from, she did not know, but she ran after Israfel. She saw him ahead of her, walking toward the place where he bunked, an old foreman’s cottage.

“Israfel,” she said as she caught up to him, out of breath. She put her hand on his arm, and he turned to face her. A scowl showed on his face.

“What?” he hissed.

Brig couldn’t speak for a moment. Then he must have realized he had shocked her, and a smile replaced the scowl.

“What is it, love?”

She liked it when he called her that, generally, but something insincere lurked in the endearment now.

“I know what you’re doing,” she admitted. Her eyes left his face, searched the street right and left. “Take me with you.”

This time, he looked genuinely amused.

“Doesn’t work that way,” he told her, touching her long hair with one of his hands. “You’d not survive out there. Even I’ll have to go through rehabilitation once I make it Earthside.”

“But – ”

“Shhh,” he said. “I promise you this.” Israfel put a conspiratorial arm around her shoulder and held her against him. “When I get Earthside, I will make sure everyone knows that there are survivors up here. You shouldn’t be abandoned just because you are Marsbred. And mayhap they will move you to the new colony. Mayhap MMS will sell your contracts to the new company.”

He squeezed her shoulder once, released her, and then went into his cottage. She stood in the street, looking after him. Would he remember us? Tell the press, tell the companies? Would anybody listen to him?

Brig walked off into the city, headed toward Gil’s. She definitely needed a drink. Would anyone else care what Israfel did? He’d spoken to her own fears about surviving off Mars. Millie might know; she read enough, was always on the Web. Most younger than Israfel had been born on Mars, their parents the first generation off-worlders. The syndicate had claimed that as the first reason they couldn’t be transferred off Mars when the mines closed. They’d promised a solution. And then, then they just forgot about those left …

Brig hoped Millie would be at Gil’s, and she did find her there with Tig. More gossip filled the room tonight. A day’s worth of speculation had spawned some ridiculous notions, but nothing approached the truth that Brig knew.

She got a drink and sat down across from Tig and Millie. “Strange day?” she asked. They both nodded, and they all sipped meditatively. She wondered how to broach the topic with Millie without giving too much away. “All this has got me thinking…” That probably sounded innocent enough. “If any of us got Earthside, could we live there? I mean, wouldn’t we be too weak?”

Millie actually laughed. “Nah, they’ve transition set-ups for off-worlders. Takes a bit of time, but after some physical therapy, nutrition adjustment, and the like, we can live on Earth just as happy as any.”

“How do you know?” Brig asked.

“Read it on the Web.” She thought for a moment. “We had a boy in our year. Remember, Tig? Parents came from Earth, both high-ups in the syndicate; they birthed him here. They took him home with them. Big deal, since he was the only one what left.”

“Truly?” Brig asked.

“For swear,” Millie said. She took a sip. “Even seen him, alive and well, on the Web. Somethin’ of a celeb, really. First kid born off-Earth to be brought back.”

**

Brig woke up early, before her food arrived. She didn’t want to miss Israfel’s departure. She needed to confront him, to beg him to take her with him or, barring that, to stay with her. Who would take care of their collective if he left? The collective, Brig’s family, would fall apart without him, and she couldn’t imagine joining another.

She dressed quickly and headed out. She stopped at Israfel’s cottage first. The door stood open, and she took a step inside. “Israfel?”

The place stood empty. She went through the rooms, searching for what she didn’t know. Some sign that he hadn’t given up on them completely. But she found the opposite. The few belongings he possessed no longer littered the room; he’d obviously packed in a hurry. She feared she wouldn’t see him in time.

Brig left the cottage and headed for the hanger. Even this early, a crowd had already gathered near the airlock doors. None entered, but they watched. She approached. The crew of the hopper went about making final preparations for departure. They watched the crowd uneasily; Brig didn’t blame them. She could see the hunger in the people around her. Most of them had been born Mars-side, but all of them wanted to find a new life, even if it just meant another dome on the other side of the planet, so long as things there moved forward instead of slipping forever into decay. She didn’t yet see Israfel. No doubt he tried to scrounge up the last of the cash he needed to get on board.

“Take one of us with you!” someone shouted from the crowd.

“All arranged,” San said back.

“When? How?” other voices asked.

“Ask him yourself.” San pointed past the crowd to the approaching figure of Israfel. He carried two satchels, one stuffed to the top with old paper money. He’d taken no time to organize it or straighten it out. He held it clutched protectively against his chest. Brig had never seen him look so worried. His eyes darted to all of them gathered in front of the airlock door, blocking his entrance to the hanger.

“What is this?” he asked when he drew up to the crowd.

“You tell us,” Hets said.

“Being born Earthside,” he began then looked at Hets, “and strong enough to travel, it makes sense that I should return. I promise, I will notify whoever can help you once I arrive – ”

“That’s our money he’s using,” Brig said under her breath. Someone near her in the crowd heard.

“What?” he asked her first, and then spoke up. “That our funds?” The man pointed to the bag.

Israfel looked down into the bag as if it contained rats and roaches. He plastered a smile on his face. “A few dollars here, a few there. It is not as if any of you needed it, and no single one of you had enough on your own to secure passage.”

“So maybe we should take that bag and put it to a vote who goes.”

“You can’t survive elsewhere,” Israfel told them. “I can.”

“He’s lying,” Millie called out. “Any of us can go Earthside.”

Israfel looked even more nervous. “I’ll make sure you get what you need,” he stammered. Israfel began pushing through the crowd nervously. Some tried to grab him, to hold him back, but they were too weak or ineffectual or really didn’t care enough. In this environment, hope and adrenalin came hard.

Brig had heard enough. She’d seen enough. The look now in Israfel’s eyes spoke volumes. He’d had the same appearance when he’d reassigned workers to the water reclamation system, when no argument could be made against it. He’d given her the same look when she’d shown up at his door, late at night, drunk, and begged to share his bed. She turned from the crowd and started running for her building. As she ran, she wondered if Israfel had seen her there. If she’d stepped up, he no doubt would have given her the same look, the same excuse. She couldn’t stomach it.

She flew through the entrance to her building and hurried with the lock of her own door. She covered the distance to her cot in a few steps and threw the light mattress up and out of the way. There, hidden beneath in a metal box, she’d stowed her father’s pistol. No one else knew about it. He’d smuggled it here when he’d emigrated. He told her his family had owned it for centuries. An antique with which he could not part.

When Brig was younger, her father had even taken her outside the dome and let her squeeze off one shot. That day was indelibly marked in her mind, and she remembered every movement her father had made to load the gun, the way his hands had felt against hers as he’d guided her aim. Rough and warm. She remembered his voice through the light respirators they had to wear outside the dome. “Squeeze slowly. Don’t jerk. Keep your hand steady.”

Now, she loaded a single round into the old revolver, just as her father had done so many years ago. Not caring who saw, she headed back to the hanger, gun grasped lightly at her side as she walked. She didn’t feel the need to run now. She held on to the calm the memory of that day in the sun with her father brought her. As she approached the hanger, she saw the doors slowly sliding shut. Israfel stood on the outside, still trying to placate the people gathered there, to convince them it was for all of their good that he left. Brig pushed past them, raising her gun as she walked.

People around her saw and shied away. Ballistic weapons caused fear. One misfired round could fracture the dome and cause irreparable damage. Right now, Brig didn’t care.

“Don’t leave,” she told Israfel as she reached the front of the crowd, the gun steady in her hand, aimed at his heart. He stood only a few paces away on the other side of the airlock doors. They grated and sent the ground to trembling as they worked to close.

“Don’t do that,” Israfel said. He made no movement; his hands still clutched the bag of money, his other satchel slung over his shoulder.

“We need you.” Brig felt tears stinging her eyes. She tried not to cry, but it began unbidden.

Israfel shook his head and turned away from the group. Brig squeezed the trigger, slow, deliberate like her father had told her. She remembered the sun on her face. The sound of the shot ricocheted off the walls of the dome, rendered infinitely louder by the enclosed space.

She watched Israfel stumble and fall, the bag of loose cash plunging to the floor in front of him. He landed face-first on the surface of the airlock. A corona of blood seeped through the back of his jumpsuit.

The dome door finally closed with a deep boom. All became still. No one spoke. It seemed no one even drew breath.

On the other side, in the hanger, the ship’s gangplank rose. Then the hopper lifted, the exterior airlock door opened, and a great wind swept into the hanger, carrying with it the red dust of Mars and whipping up all the bills that Israfel had hoarded. They swirled around in the airlock as the hopper lifted off and flew into the blossoming day.

If Israfel did not die from the gunshot, in the low pressure of Mars’s exterior, his blood boiled, and he certainly died then.

Brig stood there, watching his body through the scratched surface of the hanger doors. Someone took the gun from her limp hand.

“He betrayed me,” Brig whispered.

“That was justice,” a voice behind her – Tig – said loud enough for all gathered to hear. “She said it. He betrayed us.”

Brig felt a hand on her shoulder. Somebody turned her. She looked at the face. Millie. She guided Brig, a protective arm across her body, out of the crowd. Tig followed them.

No one else made a move after her as Brig lurched away. She raised her head as they walked. She looked at the bones of the city. That’s all they were now. Remains, and this one giant cemetery.

---

C.B. Calsing is a native of San Luis Obispo, California, but now calls New Orleans home. She recently received her MFA in creative writing, fiction, from the University of New Orleans. She started writing science fiction in high school. She can be found online at http://cbcalsing.com.