Surface Day

It was Surface Day and Karya was staring at the Martian sky.

Once a month, when the conditions were good, everyone – miners and caff fillers, foremen and scientists – was allowed to spend time on the surface. Rovers transported groups to geological formations, astronomers gave seminars, and cameras were made available for people to document the day. If an employee’s photo was chosen for company marketing materials, they’d receive a nice bonus.

Karya took nearly 300 pictures each Surface Day, mostly of the red-suited miners themselves. She wasn’t motivated by the potential bonus (though of course it would be nice): she simply needed to record as many faces as she could whenever she had the chance.

When she wasn’t taking pictures, Karya stared at the sky, drinking in the openness and the shades of gray and gold. It wasn’t particularly pretty, but its beauty was in its expansiveness. It reminded Karya of the only time she’d gone swimming, when her family won a vacation to a tropical island. She was nine; Marko was twelve. It was the first time she’d ever left the station where she was born, the first time she saw the sky from below, and the first time she’d been able to fully submerge herself in water. Her dad didn’t want them swimming alone, but Karya went anyway, plunging into the clear depths until they were no longer clear, until her lungs ached, then stung.

She kicked until everything burned and the water turned clear again and she was out, bursting free, filling her small strained lungs with pure life, blinking at the sunshine and the clarity of sand grains and palms and the subtle variegation in that blue, blue sky.

Karya had been holding her recycled breath for weeks now, waiting for the day the lift went up instead of down. Now she could exhale and breathe in sunlight, and horizons, and mountains. It almost made her smile.

But they’d sounded the five minute warning, a piercing electronic tone delivered to her earpiece, and Karya still had pictures to take. She drew her eyes down, raised the camera to her faceplate, and shot.

Every photo taken was made available on the mine’s ‘net, so after each Surface Day, she used her free time to scan through hundreds and hundreds of photos, squinting through the miners’ face masks in hopes of finally seeing her brother.

Marko had left home at eighteen, but his record – a single incident of vandalism – condemned him to the life of a miner on any of a dozen ore-rich worlds. Karya counted it a blessing that he was still in the solar system – or had been, anyway. Since she’d lost contact with him a year and a half ago, she had no way of knowing he was even still on Mars. The mine didn’t bother with accurate record-keeping as long as the quotas were met, and if a miner or two or forty died in a superheated gas leak or a collapsed tunnel, there were hundreds more willing to take their place.

She had no evidence that Marko was dead, thankfully, but she had no evidence he was still alive, either. Thousands of photos across eight Surface Days had revealed nothing. She was running out of places to look

Karya turned her camera on Col and Maria, who were photographing their team with their own camera. Like her, they took many photos of the miners as part of their pledge to help her find Marko. They shared her suspicions of foul play, but she’d also bribed them with additional caff fills. The extra caffeine wasn’t physically harmful, but providing and accepting more than the allotted amount put all their jobs at risk. Col, who’d been assigned miner due to anarchist activity, had jumped at the opportunity to play whistle-blower, caffeinated or not. Maria and many of the others, having had friends who were suddenly “promoted” and never heard from again, wanted answers of their own, no matter how dangerous the questions were.

That had been three months ago. They’d found nothing, and between the secret caff refills and their risky investigation, Karya thought they were all lucky to still be employed, let alone not imprisoned.

The electronic tone signaling the end of Surface Day sounded. Maria elbowed her as they trudged towards the lifts.

“Any good shots?”

“Hope so. You?”

“We’ll see, huh?” They crowded into the lift. “Anyway, there’s always next month.”

Karya nodded and took one last photo of the hazy Martian sky.

Caff Girl

Karya clocked in five minutes before the start of twelfth rotation and caught the next lift down into the mines. It stopped two levels down at the substation, where she hopped into her pressure suit, loaded a caff tank onto her back, and checked the tunnel conditions. It was a good day – no gas leaks, volcanic activity, or equipment malfunctions – so she reboarded the lift and headed deeper down.

Even with the pressure suit on, Karya thought she could still feel her ears needing to pop. She opened and closed her jaw, but, as usual, nothing happened. When she started this job over a year ago, she needed anxiety meds, something that took her mind off the claustrophobic suit and the crushing depths and the ever-present threat of erupting volcanoes. Even going “home” to the employee dorms couldn’t soothe her – those were also underground, sheltered from the brutal Martian surface. Karya was born on a geostationary satellite complex positioned over the Atlantic, but somehow the vacuum of space and all its associated horrors never scared her as badly as this mining operation.

She needed this job, though, so she adjusted. It had been three months since she’d needed the meds. Most of the other caff girls who were hired along with Karya had been promoted or left, but Karya stayed.

The high-pitched whine of the speeding lift became a low hum, then disappeared. The lift doors opened and Karya emerged at the dim, sweltering bottom of the mine.

She’d seen old photographs in her Earth history textbooks depicting miners in the ancient coal mines. They were dressed in sturdy work clothes and heavy helmets, their exposed faces indistinguishable under thick dirt and coal dust. The miners of Mars were also difficult to tell apart thanks to their bulky, red-dusted protective suits. It had made finding Marko even harder than she’d expected.

The first group of miners shut off their laser picks as she approached. Karya felt a familiar surge of anticipation – maybe this time – but she recognized their faces as they turned towards her, all of them heaving audible sighs of relief while her own hopes trickled away.

“Frackin’ finally.”

She forced a smile onto her face. “Hey, Col.”

Col was a shift captain, one of several miners Karya knew by name. He looked overworked at only half past noon, and judging by the sheen of sweat under his helmet and the unintelligible grunt that accompanied his outthrust glove, it had been a long morning indeed. She clipped the caff dispenser spigot to the valve on his glove, pumping his afternoon dose of cool, refreshing caffeinated air into his suit.

“Better?” she asked while she refilled Maria.

Col raised one stubby finger while he inhaled slowly. He grinned and held out his wrist for more.

Karya hesitated. Giving a worker a second fill-up in the same shift was grounds for having her wages docked – if she was caught. The entire mine was watched by security cameras, but only some of the cameras were monitored some of the time. She suspected she was one of few who knew this, considering she’d found out by sneaking into the company archives to try to find proof her brother was here. On weeks when the budget was tight, the company simply shut off cameras, saving power but sacrificing safety and accountability. Whole days were missing from the archives. Some of those corresponded to low-earning weeks, but others occurred ominously close to what the company had labeled mass layoffs, promotions, or retirements.

Those, in turn, corresponded with periods of high volcanic activity below the mines.

Karya had last heard from her brother fifteen months ago, but they were lousy correspondents even when channels weren’t disrupted by outages, radiation, or hackers. Marko could have been missing for two months, or fifteen, or none, but until Karya found proof in the records, or came across him among the hordes of miners she refilled twice a day, she refused to leave Mars.

She turned back to Col. “You want caff refills?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“You want them on the regular?”

He glanced at the cameras. “You need help finding someone?”

“How did you know?”

“Nobody stays a caff girl for as long as you unless they’re looking for someone,” he said with such gentleness it nearly made her cry. “Who is it? Boyfriend? Sibling?”

She clipped on the spigot again. “Brother. Marko. Can you help me?”

He breathed deeply and grinned. “Let me do some digging.”

Cat On A Cool, Shingled Roof It’s Not Supposed To Be On

If we had air conditioning, I probably wouldn’t have had to drag my year-old cat in from off the roof Monday morning while balancing the detached window screen in the other hand and bowl of kibble against my hip.

We do not have air conditioning.

We have a box fan that gets wedged into the open window on hot nights, like Sunday night. It keeps the bedroom cool enough to sleep, which is our biggest priority.

Our cats – exactly one year old, physically if not behaviorally adult cats – have different priorities. They’re obsessed with finding a way under the drapes, onto the top of the fan, between the blinds and the screen so they can…sit there? Feel tall? Plot their escape? They must have their reasons, but all we know is their climbing is noisy and precarious.

Fortunately, they leave the fan alone during the night. As soon as the sun is up, though, either Rocket or Robot will inevitably try scrabbling up the fan and/or the curtains.

Usually, I remember to take down the fan and close the window first thing. That did not happen on Monday morning.

I was downstairs refilling my precious coffee when I heard the familiar sound of something heavy and plastic becoming detached from the bedroom window. I sighed, gathered my things, and went upstairs. I expected to find the fan fallen on the carpet and a fluffed-up cat crouched in the hallway, pretending nothing was wrong.

Instead I found the fan still upright, and Rocket sitting on top of it. He seemed to have popped one corner of the screen out of its frame – and he was very interested in getting out onto the roof.

I grabbed him and the still-whirring fan and chucked the former onto the bed and propped the latter against the wall.

And then the question occurred to me. I dreaded the answer before the thought was even fully formed: where’s Robot?

I looked back out the window.

She was crouched at the edge of the roof, eating something out of the gutter. (She likes to eat twigs. We have strange cats.)

I prioritized and acted with precision borne from pet-related crisis:

  1. Lock Rocket in the bathroom to keep him from joining Robot. (Deal with whatever he does to the bathroom later.)
  2. Turn off fan to avoid fire, sliced-off fingers, shredded drapes, etc.
  3. Put fan down. Need maximum dexterity.
  4. Regret not putting on proper bra in case I have to run outside to chase down Robot.

I reached through the gap and started tapping on the roof. “Robot!” I used my sweetest sing-song pleading, even though I’d have much preferred cussing her out. “Robot, please come back, don’t make me go on the roof. Heeeeere, kitty kitty!”

Her attention remained on the gutter. I tried not to think about what she might be eating – instead, it gave me an idea.

I sprinted into the hallway, dumped a handful of kibble into her bowl, and brought it to the window, levering the screen out with one hand and rattling the bowl with the other.

“Come here, kitty!” Rattle rattle rattle.

She looked back and, praise be unto the Lord, padded gracefully up the shingles. I propped the bowl up against my hip and seized her, hauling her back through the screen.

Midway through the process, the screen popped out of its frame.

I held onto it with my left hand, not daring to move it too much in case it made a noise and spooked her. The food bowl tipped, scattering kibble onto the windowsill and carpet. Robot let me drag her back into the house and launch her onto the bed, as far as I could safely throw her, while I figured out how to reattach the screen.

It didn’t cooperate, but Robot was happy to clean up the spilled kibble for me.

I left the screen in the bathroom for my husband to deal with. Rocket immediately returned to the windowsill, seeking the escape route his sister had taken advantage of.

Robot, unrepentant monster that she is, fell asleep on the floor.

If there’s an “old enough to know better” threshold for cats, I really hope they hit it soon. Summer is coming, and I do not want any more cats exploring the roof.

I do, however, want air conditioning.

Chasing It Down

My first jersey was pink. I was in kindergarten. My dad was one of the coaches, the first of many years he’d play that role. He might have seen coaching as the natural progression of his love for soccer; he might have hoped to transform a group of suburban girls into eventual Olympic champions. Maybe he expected nothing more than to convey his love of the game to the next generation.

He probably didn’t expect us to spend most of our first game huddled around the ball, an inside-out phalanx of bubblegum-pink t-shirts with a ball ricocheting within.


I played goalie in the pink jersey years. My mom will, to this day, tease me for my tendency to pick the dandelions that were growing in the goal box while the action was at the other end of the field. It just seemed like a reasonable way to pass the time. What was I supposed to do, just stand there and watch? I had overexcited parents and stampeding footsteps to alert me if the ball was coming back.

My husband remembers all his most crushing defeats and most victorious saves from when he played soccer around the same age. I don’t remember any of that – just the weather, the dandelions, and the cluster of pink shirts far away at the other end of the field.


After that, the jerseys were steel blue. We fitted in with the rainy skies and the muddy fields, all of us pale and desaturated by fall in the Northwest.

On one of those gray days, I was playing forward. I much preferred defense, but my dad was trying to get me to branch out. By halftime, I was tired, and a few minutes beyond that, I was exhausted. I raised my hand four or five times, trying to call for a sub, but my dad had me play on. He even subbed another girl off the field, but I had to stay in.

I can’t remember why he refused to sub me out. I think he wanted me to keep it up, lead the team, set a good example, so on and so forth. One of the perks of being the coach’s daughter was having an unofficial leadership role placed upon you at all of eight years old.

Only, at eight years old, I didn’t give a damn about leading. I just wanted five minutes to catch my breath.


It rained often. The goal boxes turned into mud pits. On the really cold days, we couldn’t feel our feet, but that just made us braver when we had to charge a much taller fifth-grader to attempt a tackle. We were already soaked, so falling in the mud wouldn’t matter, and with various body parts going numb, the collision wouldn’t even hurt. Our blue socks turned black with mud. The white turtleneck I wore under my jersey for warmth was sodden up to the elbows.

We trudged back to the car after another loss. It was dark and pouring. Strands of my thin hair were plastered to my face. Mom wrapped me in towels and I climbed into the car and tried to close the door.

We had a minivan then, with a button you had to depress to make the door close. I remember my hands were so numb, and my strength was so depleted, I couldn’t push the button, not even with both hands. I kept pressing, watching with detached fascination as my thumbs turned white but the door refused to close.

I switched to tennis after that: it was played mostly indoors, and for outdoor matches, when it merely looked like it could potentially sprinkle, you didn’t play.


My husband texts our friends. We all have World Cup fever, and the weekend forecast is promising, so we gather a few friends, some cones, and a soccer ball and head to the nearest park.

The sun is out, but it’s rained recently so the grass is slick. Even though we can barely run on it without slipping, we start off playing three-on-three anyway.

Within five minutes, I’m winded, additionally so because I can’t stop laughing about it – twenty years ago, I could have run like this for an hour. Luckily, the others are not much better off.

“Apparently we need to do this more often,” I say.


“I was thinking never again.”

After the opposing goalie slips and nearly does the splits trying to make a save – and after we are all red-faced and sweaty, but too proud to admit how tired we are – we switch to passing the ball in a circle. I get to stand and relax for a few moments, feeling my heart rate return to normal while the sun glitters in the dewy grass.

I try to catch a high pass with my knee, but misjudge my angle and the ball sails past my waist towards the fence. I run, racing my shadow for the ball.


She begins cleaning out the closet: on hangers, ironed blouses; in drawers, crumpled camisoles; on high shelves, plastic tubs packed with summer clothes.

She doesn’t – can’t – bring them down yet. It’s hard enough to contemplate tomorrow without her mother; summer is incomprehensible.