Long ago, an Earthling, Nathanial Hawthorne, wrote about the need for a new community to allot part of its real estate to a cemetery, and another part to a prison. Here in the Shirley Slopes settlement, we don’t need a cemetery; a quick cremation is standard.

But what about the prison? We like to think that we’re all pulling together here – but what happens when the rules are broken? I don’t mean those everyday things that we can sort out among ourselves, but those occasions when something more serious happens and some actual harm is done. We aren’t equipped to keep prisoners – no jail, no sheriff, no staff, no supplies – nor do our community values embrace incarceration as a punishment. But people need to feel that their grievances have been heard, that justice has been served, and that some kind of balance has been restored.

Which brings up the current problem we’re having with the hydroponics expert, who lives in our host settlement, but has been visiting and working in Shirley Slopes for two months now. This expertise is welcome and was greatly needed; our greenhouses were barely keeping our settlement supplied with edibles. In exchange, our inter-settlement liaison sent someone over to the other settlement to help refine their lighting systems.

Our host settlement is bigger, and they have more resources. Resources are tight here, and shortages usually mean that somebody suffers. So perhaps this all started with a conflict of cultural norms. Then came the complaints that our visitor, the hydroponics expert, was too casual with other people’s equipment, treating personal tools like community property that sometimes were not returned to the rightful owner.

But now some tools have gone missing, and people started muttering that the culprit was probably the hydroponics person. Long story short, it’s all ended in punches being thrown in the cafeteria – short tempers all around, but it was clear the person who initiated the fight (there were witnesses) with our visitor was our “in-situ” craftsperson, who prizes the tools used in producing the uniquely useful items marketed here and to other Mars settlements. It’s a matter of one’s creative process, not to mention one’s livelihood.

Our visitor was not badly hurt, but was furious, of course – well, it was an assault, there’s no doubt about that. The host settlement wasn’t happy, either – they want to know what we’re going to do about it. They’re threatening to recall the hydroponics expert, and to cut off all further inter-settlement cooperation – which we can’t allow.

As the community wellness director and unofficial mediator when past disputes have arisen, I’ve been asked to look into the whole business. Find out about the missing tools, decide what to do if there is a thief among us, and bring in our inter-settlement liaison to resolve the situation in such a way that the host settlement is kept happy.

First up, a sit-down: as wellness director and inter-settlement liaison, the two of us have decided to bring in both our visitor and our craftsperson, see if we can talk it out. Then, with input from both settlements, we need to create and execute a plan that absolutely guarantees this will never happen again.

They’ve begun to call it the “Mars Malaise,” the unshakable gloom we all feel. We see it in our friends and co-workers: drooped shoulders, perpetual frowns, uninspired conversations. No one gathers simply for pleasure, for recreation, or for casual socializing. We perform our jobs, stop in the cafeteria for a quick meal, maybe hit the gym, before retreating to our private quarters, where we read, watch cine on our screen, or plan the next day’s work.

The despondent mood seems to have hit the newcomers the hardest. Our new medic used to compete in triathlons on Earth, and now frequents the fitness cubicle, rides the stationary bike for hours, then jumps on the treadmill (and laments our lack of a swimming pool!) – and has a fitness level that’s off the charts, but is restless and frustrated. The medic is trying to help, offering an impressive array of wellness classes, but there are few takers.

Even some of our original settlers, who’ve been here six years, complain that conditions here don’t measure up to Earth standards. Our chief engineer is fed up with all the time that must be spent fielding residents’ complaints, especially about this false industrial lighting everywhere, as well as everything else “un-Earthlike.” The color temperature of the lighting instruments has been adjusted to make them warmer, but in no way do they mimic natural sunlight. We’ve even introduced artificial “skylights,” but nobody’s fooled by this. Our settlement was built underground in a giant lava tube.

The location for the Wrexie Tube was strategically chosen to support our manufacturing efforts, which are key our financial independence from Earth. The useful minerals, ores and other materials are close and easily accessed. Our factory runs 24/7; with no natural light, the workers say they don’t care, because they work more hours and make more money. And, of course, we’re safe here from the deadly radiation that endangers residents living in above-ground settlements. Our factory manager, in fact, staunchly supports the status-quo, and thinks most are exaggerating the symptoms they’re reporting.

We all have ways of coping. I try to immerse myself in my job as settlement horticulturalist. Each day, in the greenhouse, I coax edibles to grow under banks of greenish gro-lights. Everyone pretends the food I cultivate tastes just fine, but I have to admit it’s nothing like the sun-ripened tomatoes and crisp snow peas I got from my kitchen garden back in Des Moines. It’s nourishment, not cuisine. I’m allowed to expand the allotted space for growing, but honestly, nobody wants more of the same.

Tonight (or is it still daytime?), as I navigate the long passageway leading from the greenhouse to my quarters, I see the sign: our settlement admin has scheduled a mandatory community meeting tonight to discuss the Mars Malaise, and what we can do to mitigate our collective doom and gloom.

The community cubicle most often functions as a cafeteria, since it’s so seldom that community-wide events are held, but tonight it’s set up as a meeting room with rows of pre-fabbed seats, most of them occupied as I enter. One hour later, I have an assignment: I’m been appointed to a team, along with our medic, our chief engineer, and our factory manager (who reluctantly agreed to participate).

Despite the unalterable fact that we live underground, we’ve been charged with finding ways to introduce more light, better light, and health-inspiring light, into our surroundings – an important first step, our settlement admin has decided, toward curing the Mars Malaise. But we’re also tasked with more: a thorough investigation into each settlement member’s well-being. We need to identify any other factors (besides the lighting) that may be contributing to the “Mars Malaise” (maybe there’s a better name for what’s happening here?), and to find and implement real solutions right away.

“I’m sorry, 101. We tried everything, but we couldn’t save your mom,” the doctor said solemnly, not looking at me, instead cleaning medical instruments, e-signing forms. When we got to the part about the settlement regulations on how my mother’s remains would be regenerated, I stopped listening.

I’m called 101, not my real name, but my designation as the 101th member of our settlement. This is not a mark of distinction; it’s more like a blemish. I was the first, and only, baby born here in the Aung Flats, or Settlement-Zero as it’s sometimes called, a remarkably successful community, but also the most rigid in its administration. The advance planning for our settlement had designed the proper infrastructure and calculated the output of its life support systems to maintain exactly 100 community members, but no more. Only when a community member dies or leaves can a new person join the settlement.

My mom, the settlement’s nutritionist and chef, got pregnant during the trip that brought 100 Earthlings here. Each settler had been selected and trained for a specific and crucial task in the settlement. All had been warned and were provided with contraceptives, and yet…

During the long journey to Mars, the decision to not interrupt my mom’s pregnancy was endlessly debated, but the “baby issue” was never resolved, except by time: once everyone landed and got busy building and sustaining our settlement, most agreed to look the other way. Besides, my mom made the best mushroom lasagna in the universe.

A few months after landing, I was born. I’ve always felt unwelcome here. I’m seen by many as a threat to our sustainability, as I use resources the settlement has not planned for. In fact, I think one reason my mom died is because she secretly shared her food with me; in her chronically weakened condition, she just couldn’t ward off a simple infection.

The doctor, my mom’s best friend here, was the only person in the settlement who knew what my mom was up to. The doctor cared for my mom as she got sicker; my mom would not allow force-feeding, despite the settlement leader’s insistence. Now, I can’t tell whether the doctor’s upset – or a bit relieved – that my mom is gone.

When my business with the doctor is finished, I’m left alone in the white empty room. I hear the doctor’s voice just outside, and another: the settlement leader, who has never approved of my existence, and who took the “baby issue” as a personal offense, since it directly challenged leadership and control over the group. “Forward the forms to resources,” I hear the settlement leader telling the doctor.

The most important person in the settlement, besides our leader, is the resource director, who maintains food and other supplies to make sure all needs are met, but with no excess. Now that my mom is gone, it’s not clear if the resource director will continue giving me my mother’s food allotment – or whether our leader will permit this.

I’m required to attend a post-mortal session with the settlement leader and the resource director, in which my mom’s possessions will be redistributed and her resources reallotted. As my mom’s closest friend and the person who cared for my mom, the doctor has also been invited. My plan is to argue that now we have 100 residents again, that some sort of balance has been restored. But already I’ve heard the grumbling that I’m not old enough to contribute to the community. I haven’t been adequately trained for a job (I can cook, but not like my mom). Plus, I have to spend time each day home schooling myself by studying online libraries, following lesson plans my mom set up long ago.

I realize that the rights and responsibilities of everyone in this settlement were clearly spelled out in our founding document, enacted before we left Earth – except for mine. As I enter the settlement leader’s office, I see my mom’s clothing, personal electronics and a few specialized food prep utensils. I realize none of my mom’s stuff matters to me now. What I need is a way to rightfully remain in my home, in this settlement, and an agreement that will secure my future here.

“Faster, we’re going to be late for the show!” Our vocalist is bouncing around inside the hover-rover with excitement, while our robo-drummer taps perfect rhythms on the rover dashboard. I’m looking out the window at the vast red landscape extending in all directions, clutching my violin case to my chest in case the rover hits a boulder. Our keyboardist, piloting the hover-rover: “Calmate, we’re almost there!”

Tonight, our band Damon will make its debut, and, if all goes well, will make history as well, at MarsFest, the annual all-settlement cultural festival, an event that is both live on Mars and transmitted (with the unavoidable time delay) to venues on Earth, where it’s very popular (all things Martian are), and also a huge commercial success. The festival sells advertising to appear at venues on Earth during the performances. The problem is that most of the profit stays on Earth; the MarsFest founders have not been able to change the agreement in a way that would divide the proceeds more equitably.

This year the MarsFest Chairperson threatened to “pull the plug” and not transmit the festival to Earth at all, but then performers threatened to boycott, and what little profit the festival makes keeps our Mars cultural programs going – including music lessons for all who live in my settlement, Elon’s Enclave (I’ve been studying the violin since I was seven). We’ve applied to perform every year for the past five years, but the selection committee is strict about which performers are chosen. As band violinist, I’m particularly proud, as I’m sure my complex counter-melodies are the reason we got in this time.

“This is just the beginning.” Our keyboardist, and self-proclaimed band leader, has been in negotiations with a band promoter, an interplanetary entrepreneur who long-commutes between Elon’s Enclave on Mars and Los Angeles, a music recording mecca on Earth. Tonight, in an unannounced and anonymous visit, the promoter will be here in the audience tonight, watching us perform live. The plan is for Damon to meet with the band promoter just after the festival and to sign a sweet recording contract. By the time our time-delayed performance shows up on a giant screen at a place called Staples Center, we’ll have “inked” an agreement that will market our music to all of planet Earth!

Finally, all our efforts seem to be paying off. We’re all set, that is, we WERE all set – until our last rehearsal before leaving for the festival, when our vocalist hurried in, announcing, “I have a surprise.”

“I tried something new. Listen…” Tapping on a tablet screen and a sound we’ve never heard filled the hab. It was part eerie wind – lots of variations on wind – plus the sharp percussive moments of swirling dust particles pelting hard surfaces, the dramatic, deep rumble of a boulder rolling down an incline. Then there was another part, a voice track so perfectly blended with the natural sounds that it seemed the vocals had melded with the landscape. It was a bit creepy – I couldn’t tell where the voice stopped and the Mars sound effects began. There was a resonance I couldn’t identify, but knew it was there.

“It’s my voice, mixed with what Mars actually sounds like.”

“How’d you do that?” I asked. “You can’t sing outside.”

“I collected the ambience with a remote sensor-mike, amped it way up and then played it back, added my vocals and mixed it all together.”

I have to tell you this, in confidence: our vocalist is super-talented, does everything from classic R&B to new-new-age minimalistic to throaty baroque to whiny emo, but is a bit of a loose cannon. Misses rehearsals, just forgets about them. Spends more time outside than most, suited up and exploring Martian terrain in dangerous and off-limit locations. Comes back in with weird recordings made in canyons, on rocky outcrops, inside lava tubes. Collects these, we all thought, as a nerd-hobby.

“This is the Mars sound we’ve been looking for!”

I could tell our keyboardist was intrigued. “This could be our ticket to success.”

“It’s too risky,” I argue back, “a total departure from everything we’ve practiced and perfected. Damon performs live, not to recordings.”

Long story short, the band members voted, 3-1, to debut the “Mars Sound” tonight. We’ll perform the new piece, riffing with our own instruments live as the recording plays. I don’t “riff.” I play exquisite, rehearsed and perfected music on my violin, but I’m expected to go along (sigh).

We arrive, suit up and head toward the venue. Once inside, we transition in the airlock, remove our suits and enter the large dome where we’ll perform. We’re backstage, about to go on, when the MarsFest chairperson steps forward, pushing a tablet toward us. “I’ll need for you to e-sign this new agreement we’ve just made with our colleagues on Earth.”

The revised contract, we are told, calls for a generous 3/1 split of all MarsFest proceeds, the larger amount going directly to the festival, the rest to promoters on Earth. Whatever deals we performers make with sponsors on Earth will be coordinated within this larger agreement, for a period of the next five years.

“This will guarantee that the festival will continue,” says the chairperson. “And that you’ll be a part of it. It’s a win-win.”

Our keyboardist starts arguing with the chairperson. “You can’t pull this at the last minute.”

Soon they’re yelling at each other. The chairperson stays calm but makes it clear we will not be allowed to perform unless we sign the new contract.

I can’t help but wonder if the band promoter has been lying to us, and is actually here to finalize a bigger deal with the MarsFest chairperson; in effect, to double-cross us.

Our vocalist heads back toward the airlock. “I’m outta here, and I’m taking the recording with me.” There goes our “Mars Sound.”

“Wait,” I hurry after the vocalist, with no idea what I’ll say or do. The robo-drummer follows me, looking everywhere for clues on how to react. One thing is certain – we don’t sign and we don’t sing until we get this figured out.