You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

  Ted greets us as the exit is sealed. “Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard. Please pick a spot, any spot, I’ll let you know when you need to buckle in. Enjoy the flight. An attendant will come by if you’d like water or a snack. You two, Aurora and…” he looks down at his tablet, “…Robin, if you two could change into your spacesuits in that little room in the back, thank you.”

  Claire raises her hand.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Are we going to Mars?”

  Ted laughs, and looked around. “One of you very definitely is going to Mars. But not for the moment. The spacesuits just help you look the part for TV. And you are, again?”

  “Claire.”

  “Ah yes. Claire. Of course.” He taps a note on his tablet. “Jerry, why don’t we begin the interviews with Claire?”

  Jerry, one of the cameramen, ambles over and kneels in front of Claire as she and Ted begin. Aurora and I change, and as I come back from the little room, I notice: we’re already airborne. I didn’t feel a thing. The engines are humming as if we’re idling. Amazing. If the clouds weren’t zooming past the windows, you’d swear we were still on the ground.

  Claire, it turns out, is a twenty-three-year-old cashier from Ohio, who nearly threw out the winning scarab until her dog Ringo ferreted it out of the trash. She works at ZippieMart and plays Botech in a league on Saturdays. And she wants to go to Mars because what the heck, she’s overweight and wants to get back in the shape she was in during high school. “Seize the day, am I right Ted?”

  Albert is next to be interviewed, the one I branded know-it-all, and he doesn’t disappoint. He’s an electronics engineer, just thirty-one but racing up the corporate ladder, working for Oberon, building supercomputers. He times himself solving the New York Times crossword puzzle every morning. “Speaking of time, I don’t have time to get married, but hey, if Mars makes me more attractive to the ladies, bonus.” He is vigorous in his offer to help the crew if anything goes wrong on the flight. “I’m good with machines, you know.” Ted and the crew smile and nod, as if to say don’t call us, we’ll call you.

  Next is Mike Horner, the actor I recognized from Home Time. On the show Mike played the young son of an international spy who had never revealed to his family his true identity until the last episode of the last season. The show was a smash, and that last episode broke records. I remember watching it in our tiny little living room, all crammed in, screaming and crying and cheering for Mike and his TV dad. Anyway, the show set him up for bigger roles and even movies. He won’t reveal how he got his hands on his scarab, but is absolutely determined to land the lead in the currently-two-years-out Star Wars Fifteen: Jedi Once More – and he thinks a trip to Mars will be the ultimate audition.

  “Robin Smith.”

  I jerk back, surprised. I’ve prepared for this moment since they stuffed me into the armoire, making up my back story and repeating it over and over and over until I knew it backwards. And I repeat it again in my head quickly: I am Robin Smith, owner of a small farm in rural New Jersey. A sustenance farm really, chickens and goats and little fields of corn and soybean and squash, so I don’t need to leave the property much. I live alone and watch a lot of TV, and that’s my connection to the world (the watching a lot of TV part is true, for better or worse). Of course, that’s possibly the most boring back story possible, it doesn’t stand a chance if I’m going to win Likes with the global audience. So I’ve kept another part of my real past life in the story: that in my free time I build and program small rockets, and develop methane and other gas, liquid, and solid propellants. I guess I’m going for the reclusive-hippie-girl-who-secretly-digs-science angle. Is that even an angle?

  But none of that story comes out of my mouth.

  “So, Robin. Tell me a little about yourself. This’ll be for what we call confessionals, or if you do something interesting later in the season, it’s something we can call back to, like a dream.”

  “Well, I…”

  Ted smiles and nods.

  “I…”

  He puts his hand on mine. “First time in front of a camera?”

  I nod.

  “Okay.” He turns to Jerry and moves his finger across his throat, and the red light on Jerry’s camera goes dark. “We’ll find out more about you later then, Robin. Right now it’s just you and me. Is it okay if I ask you yes or no questions?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good. You already answered one right. See? Easy. Now. Are you excited to be here?”

  “Yes. Very. And nervous. Obviously.”

  “That’s okay. And can you hold your breath for longer than three minutes?”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Sorry. These are just ice breakers. Don’t think too much about your answers.”

  “No.”

  “Can you do more than twelve pull ups?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever been in an extremely stressful situation, say, a robbery, or a car crash, or running from a burning building, or being confined and escaping?”

  Confined and escaping. “Definitely.”

  “Good. Do you have any mechanical, programming, or chemistry ability?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes.”

  It’s Ted’s turn to raise an eyebrow. He continues to tap on his tablet, being careful not to show me. “Okay, last question: is there anything interesting about you that we don’t already know?”

  I blurt out, “No!”

  He pats my hand and turns to give Jerry the okay to move on, but I grab him by the collar and pull him close enough where I can whisper in his ear. “Yes.”

  He pulls back, enough to peer into my eyes, and I hope they say it all: that there is a forbidden past I can’t tell him about, that I’ve just been chased through the streets of Los Angeles by a rogue toll monitor, been told a secret I can’t believe, and that I’m supposed to be the one who goes to Mars, it’s where I belong.

  He smiles awkwardly and whispers back as he untangles my vice-grip fingers from his shirt. “I… think we have everything we, ah, need for the moment. Moving on…”

  “Okay, folks. Please buckle your shoulder harnesses. It might get a little bumpy for a few minutes.” We all watch out the large windows as the clouds drop away further and further below us. Suddenly we’re pressed downward in our seats with incredible force.

  Claire gasps. “What’s happening? Ted? Ted! Why aren’t you answering me, Ted?!”

  Ted and the camera crew clip straps dangling from their vests and various gear onto steel bars running along the ceiling. “It’s all right, Claire. Relax. Just a few more moments…”

  The force, strangely smooth but extremely strong, vanishes.

  Our bodies begin to lift off the benches, tugging at the shoulder harnesses.

  We’re weightless!

  “Welcome to low Earth orbit, folks. Not really, we’re only about a hundred miles up, but we’re close. You can unbuckle now.”

  Low Earth orbit! One by one, contestants begin to release their bodies to the open space – and vomit. The camera crew groans and laughs, knowing this is priceless footage for the show, and exactly what Zach Larson wants. The towels and plastic sheathing over the cameras are no longer a mystery.

  I think somehow, with my Really Important Destiny at stake, that I’ll escape puking, so I unbuckle and let myself float, giddy – and immediately unload the contents of my stomach into the air. Whoops.

  Aurora laughs at me, unfazed by the nebula of partially-digested food particles floating through the open compartment. She swats away a bit of my waste. “So. Who’s throwing up on who?”

  I must turn red, or look like another round might come shooting out of my mouth, because she turns me around and pushes me towards a window. “This might help. Look.”

  We grab the bars beneath the window nearest us and hold on, and look out together.

  I immediately forget the flotsam in the cabin, and the nausea, and smile.

  Space.

  We’re f
loating far enough above Earth to see the gentle curve of its horizon, and the infinite stars beyond.

  Amazing. Beautiful.

  The indescribably blue Earth is below us, its atmosphere almost glowing. And the pitch-black void above, dotted with more stars than can ever be counted. A tear escapes my eye and floats away.

  Aurora fogs up the window with her breath, slurring her speech. “If I don’t remember any of this tomorrow, will you remind me how gorgeous it is?”

  I laugh and nod, and look down at our planet, so peaceful and clean, and truly awe inspiring. North America moves past as we fall gracefully around the planet. “That’s where I’m from.”

  Aurora tries to follow my finger. “New York?”

  “No. New Jersey.”

  “Wow. Me too. What city?”

  My heart stops.

  What are the chances? The very first person I meet on the set of You’re Going to Mars! is from New Jersey? “Um. I thought I saw on America Sings! you were from Las Vegas.”

  She scrunches up her face. “That’s the story. The ‘Aurora’ Story. And I do live in Vegas. But I’ve also lived in Florida, and Washington, and we even lived a couple of years on Oceana Twelve. Been all over. Kinda sucky life, if I’m being perfectly honest. Anyway, I left New Jersey when I was three, so I don’t even know why I asked you which city. I don’t remember a thing.” She laughs. “Except my tricycle.”

  “I got a used tricycle when I was around two. Maybe it was yours.”

  “Red?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well then it was definitely mine. You still have it?”

  “Nah. It’s deep in the fill by now.”

  She hiccups. “Deep in the fill? You sound like one of those Fill City people. You’re funny.”

  Again my heart stops. I need to get better at not being Paper Farris, third-generation Filler, immediately. I am Robin. Robin Smith. Self-sufficient farmer and rocket hobbyist from rural New Jersey. “Do you mind me asking… what’s a famous pop singer doing on You’re Going to Mars! ?”

  She squints at me, like she’s trying to determine whether she can tell me the truth. I guess I pass her brief, intoxicated test, because she leans in and lowers her voice. “My agent says it’s the perfect promo.” She peers around at the cameras, not pointed at us at the moment. Whispers. “I’m not supposed to win. Just make it far enough to promote the launch…” she chuckles at her own pun, “…get it? Launch? …of my next album. Rocket Girl. But really? My secret reason?” She whispers even more softly into my ear. “I wanted to escape.”

  Huh? This girl, on top of the world, with freedoms I could only dream of, wants to escape? Escape what? My look of shock must be obvious, because she shakes her head, trying to focus. “Wow. Still drunk. Loose lips. You didn’t hear any of that. Promise me. And you have to tell me something now, so we’re even. A secret.”

  “Not a word. Promise.” I look around, too, as if all eyes are on us. But everyone’s busy either gawking out the windows, or clutching their stomachs and floating around looking for a bag or something to barf in. Can I trust this person? It’s likely she won’t even remember any of this. I could make up any “secret” I want. But there’s something about her. She’s revealed herself to me, almost immediately. She deserves the same. “You’re not the only one, Aurora. I also needed to esca-“

  “ALERT! ALERT! MALFUNCTION! PREPARE FOR EMERGENCY ACTION!”

  We spin around to flashing red lights and a blaring siren. Panic spreads like fire in the open cabin, as the weightless bodies of the contestants bounce off each other, limbs reaching and writhing and grabbing, everyone looking for something to hold on to, something safe in the chaos. Claire screams at the top of her lungs and clutches poor Albert, who tries in vain to pry her loose. A man, Tanner, is smushing another woman’s face, I think her name is Avery, against a window with his foot in an effort to push himself down to a safety harness. Several contestants are launching themselves toward Ted and the production crew, as if a bunch of cameramen could save them from a fiery death a hundred miles above Earth.

  Aurora and I hold onto the bar beneath our window. I notice her body shaking, and she has her head tucked into her chest, like she’s praying. She’s afraid.

  I put my arm around her. “Aurora. Take a deep breath. Look over at Ted and the crew.”

  She tentatively peeks at them. “Why? They’re going to die too!”

  “No. Notice how they’re pretty calm? How they’re still shooting, panning with the cameras? And that one next to Ted, he’s holding back a smile. It’s a little too perfect, don’t you think?”

  Confirming my theory – thank God – the alarm stops and the lights return to normal.

  Aurora’s body instantly relaxes, and she lets out a little snicker. “Sneaky sneaky.”

  An announcement comes from unseen speakers. “Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen. My copilot must’ve – accidentally – pushed the wrong button up here in the cockpit! I apologize, and want to assure you everything’s just absolutely fine. We’ll be re-entering gravity in a few seconds, so if you could now find your seats and buckle in. Thank you.”

  The entire cabin seems to exhale, as bodies float gently to the floor, and nervous chuckles fill the space. We aren’t going to die after all. Aurora buckles in and turns to me. “Pretty observant. If that was a test, you passed for not losing your cool.”

  “And you passed before for not losing your cookies.”

  She laughs. “Well, then I guess we’re even.”

  It appears she’s already forgotten our little “secrets” thing. Good. We look around, and it dawns on everyone that it all was a test, our first test. Several of the contestants whimper to themselves, three or four openly crying. One of the crew hands out towels for us to wipe ourselves off, and some kind of automatic vacuum scurries around, sucking up any waste that remains.

  As Martha touches down a few minutes later, again with that most amazing, light touch, Aurora spies a camera trained on her. She unbuckles and shoots up standing, raising both hands in the air, tossing her head back and forth for maximum hair flip, and squeals, “Let’s do that again!”

  And Marina Delacosta throws up on her shoe.

  20

  Welcome to the Show!

  Imagine taking your first space flight ever, and then being immediately paraded into a large television studio in front of an audience of several thousand, assaulted by giant, bright lights, all while wearing a stifling spacesuit partially covered in other people’s regurgitated food.

  If you can imagine that… welcome to the show!

  I’m exhausted, alternately sweating, shivering, and nauseous, and Zach Larson greets us as if we’ve just taken a leisurely tour of an air-conditioned mall. “Here they are, ladies and gentlemen! The twenty-six contestants of You’re Going to Mars!”

  We march onstage in single file, smiling weakly and waving, to the theme song and the cheers of the crowd, who just watched our little low-orbit farce on massive projection screens in the theater. The contestant right in front of me, Baker, passes out, and has to be dragged backstage. Then another contestant. And another. By the time we take our seats around the mammoth circular table in the middle, with the huge AceSpace mission seal in the middle – a Red Scarab surrounded by stars – four contestants are gone. And a couple look like they’re not far behind.

  “Wonderful! Wonderful!” Larson sashays back and forth in front of us, applauding. “Our remaining contestants, congratulations on completing Stage One. Well…” he smiles coyly, looking directly into the camera, “…almost.”

  A woman two seats to my left raises her hand, limp, and whispers timidly into the microphone in front of her. “A- a- almost…?”

  “Yes, my dear Addison. You see, the theme for Stage One is ‘Endurance.’ For the next twenty-one days, every day, to acclimate your body to the rigors of space travel, you’ll be going on just a few more low-orbit flights.”

  “Just… a few?”

>   “Thirty.”

  Addison begins to cry. I think she might be relieving herself in her spacesuit, too.

  “Addison, dear. If you, any of you actually, would like to leave the program at this point, I completely understand. Please raise your hand.”

  Addison, who already has her hand raised, points to it aggressively with her other hand, without losing a beat in her sobbing. The man next to her, Chris, raises his hand too, and doesn’t even wait for a chaperone as he bolts off the stage, holding his hands in front of his mouth, his cheeks full of whatever was just in his belly a few moments ago. Larson walks over to Addison and gathers her up in his arms. “There there, Addison, Mars isn’t for everyone. But here’s a silver lining: you’ll be going home with a lifetime subscription to Groupie Plus, ten thousand credits, and… you will be honored forever in the Wall of Heroes!”

  He thrusts his hand out, gesturing to the area behind our table. It instantly becomes opaque and glows bright, and lists the names of the six contestants, complete with their NASA-looking spacesuit photos, who are now “heroes.” It’s absurd, anyone can tell, and Zach Larson knows it, calling first-round-defeated reality show contestants “heroes,” the whole thing is ridiculous, but he loves every second of it. It’s his heartfelt homage to every lame, nonsensical show like it that has ever existed. And the feeling is contagious. I find myself rising from my seat and clapping wildly for Addison, and Chris, and the four other fallen “heroes,” and I’m joined by my fellow – I don’t know what to call them now – not-yet-heroes?

  “Addison, dear. Do you like it?”

  Between sobs, Addison squeaks out, “Are you kidding me? No.”

  Larson hands Addison off to a chaperone, and applauds her as she disappears off stage. “Very well. Onto the rules. Simple. You will live in this state-of-the-art facility for the next twelve weeks, with zero contact with the outside world, I repeat zero contact, your phones and such have already been collected. Last man or woman standing at the end of those twelve weeks wins a spot on the crew for the first manned mission to Mars in history! A seven-month, fully privately-funded mission to explore, test a bit of mining and farming and terraforming, and… who knows? Now, five teams of…” he counts the remaining contestants with his fingers, “… four will compete, accumulating points every day for reaching milestones. After each of three three-week Stages, the team with the fewest points will leave the competition in a two-hour live television special. Goodbye. In addition, Groupie subscribers around the globe will Like or Dislike you on a live feed twenty-four hours a day, and at the end of each stage the contestant with the fewest Likes, in addition to the lowest-scoring team, goes home. At Stage Four, we’ll disband the two surviving teams and the remaining contestants will compete individually. Then, ultimately, the single contestant with the most points will join us on our historic voyage!” The stage dims, and he marches to the middle front, into a single spotlight, and extends his arms. As he does, more spotlights appear on either side. “Now folks… who would like to meet the Team Leaders, the crew of High Heaven?”