6

For the most part, none of us get visitors. We get cells. We stay in the cells all night, leave in the morning, stay at work all day, then come back at night. There's not really time to do much but sleep. Makes for a mind-numbing routine.

Could be thrown around, once in a while. Break the rhythm. Maybe a few bingo games, or a couple extra hours of sleep. It would be nice.

My original point, though: we don't get visitors. I mean, who's rich enough to raise the funds for a liner to Earth - even if it is to visit a loved one? And if they did, where's the guarantee that the Earth government will grant them a visa, let them get off the ship without throwing them in jail, or, if they have passage to the surface, that they'll ever be able to find out where to visit. There are almost four hundred different base locations around the world that hold Martian prisoners of war. Where would you begin looking?

And, if there are people on Earth who want to visit you, what the hell are you doing in the uniform?

I had a visitor yesterday, though. It was him.

I was trying to stay awake, at the time. You can see a few stars from the window, and I thought I might be within the range that could see Mars that night. Sappy, sentimental, okay, but I'm hardly the only one who was talking about it.

Strange, though - I knew it was him, before the door shut. I didn't have to look up. Maybe it's smell, or a feel to the air, or something. I just always know.

He sat down across from me, without a word.

There were a lot of things I could have said. Accusations, maybe. Against him, I have the right to moral indignation. - This isn't really news, for anyone well-versed in the military sequence of events. Maybe not your average Earth citizen, I suppose.

When I actually did look at him, he wasn't looking at me. And his face was twisted, like he was searching for something to say.

"Enjoying your job?" he asked, finally.

"Why?" I asked.

He wasn't expecting an answer. Least of all, not one that fast. "I - well. I think I may be able to arrange something better."

His eyes were searching my face. Looking for gratitude, maybe.

I looked away.

"I'll see what I can do," he said. He lingered in the doorway, a little, before he left.

I hate to say it, but a change - it would be, well, not nice. Nothing would be nice. An improvement, maybe. You see the same tired Martian faces - fewer every month, because there are people who give up. And some people who convince they're not really giving up, just changing the battle strategy.

I fight better on my own, anyway.

- Derek Rayne