The sun streaked through the haze, illuminating cyclones of dust motes under the greenish sky. A brown building loomed in the distance, encased in razor wire. Some small vertebrae crunched underfoot and the sepia sea lapped against the concrete barrier.

Riff’s suit stuck to the thin creases in her elbows. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and pearled over her lips under the darkened dome of her helmet. It felt like crawling and she wanted to swipe at it. The supervisor beside her rocked over a chunk of hardened sand.

The last time Riff had been outside was seven cycles ago, when The Corporation picked up her older brother and her from the old military base in San Diego county. When the waters rushed orange-y and cold into the city, her mother put them on an inflatable corporation raft. The soldiers, each with a bright white O printed on their kevlar, grabbed the children’s wrists and waistbands and hauled them into the raft. She tossed her suit jacket onto the raft with them, her mascara running black under her brown eyes, and reached for the rope trailing behind.

“Lo siento. Estamos en capacidad.” The soldiers said.

“No, no, no. You don’t understand. I’m the DA. These are my children.”

“Es. tam. os. en. capacidad.”

His blue eyes glowed flatly from the shadows of his black helmet. “Por los hijos solomente.”

“I speak English. I’m the fucking DA.” The water lapped against her full face. The soldier ripped the cord from her hands.

And that was that. The Before.

The transport hung in the air, spewing gouts of black smoke in hot gusts. The supervisor whirred beside her, its cooling fan working against the dust and the smoke and the heat. A girl about her age in a white dress flashed on its screen. The girl cradled a doll in the crook of her arm, before kneeling in front of a small child and pushing the doll into the child’s arms. A ripple of green tore the image in half. The supervisor’s camera flicked white. The earpiece in her helmet crackled and a mechanical voice hummed in her ear.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Congratulations, Riff. Mars welcomes you in 12.5 days.”

The transport tilted in the air, sending down a long set of shallow stairs.

Riff walked toward the stairs that jutted thin and straight from the ship like the proboscis from a feeding mosquito. The supervisor was malfunctioning in the dust and rolled in a wide arc, before wedging itself against the cinder block wall that surrounded the facility. Chunks of black asphalt detached from the road, the tar sticking to her boots. Riff heard her own breath. Mars. Mars. Mars.

***

On the sixth day of the transport, Riff grew restless. She braided her hair and scrolled through Martian news on the big screens and wandered around her quarantine chambers. She drew crude drawings in the dust on the black floor of men and dogs and dog meat burgers. She watched videos of prank shows on Mars, where a boy set fire to aeroponic fields and forced the women in the fields to kiss him. Sometimes he got caught and the head aerofarmer beat him until his nose and mouth bled, afterward forcing him to kiss her. Her mouth and teeth stained red. And Riff laughed and laughed.

But even that grew old.

There had to be others. She couldn’t be the only one on the transport. She peeked through the plasticine window. Craning her neck to look down the narrow hall. Bulky machinery hummed along. No movement. Her food dropped into the recess on the wall, with a dull slap. A bag of rehydrated potatoes and unidentifiable slick gravy. The same food. The same pranks. The same news. She dropped from her tiptoes and went over to the food slot. As she fished out the warm, shiny bag, a small device clattered to the floor, about the size of a business card.

She put the food bag on the table and pick up the device. It was smooth on all sides and made of metal composite. It was about a quarter of an inch thick and had a thumb-sized indentation in the center. She pressed her finger into the dent in the surface. It unfolded rapidly, flipping over and over in her hand, suctioning itself to her fingertips until it was a shirt-sized screen. Words flashed in the center, before vanishing like a dust storm headed east.

You will be devoured. Meet us at The Nozzle. Two lunar phases. First Phobos rise.