You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

  The audience goes wild cheering for the five god-like creatures who emerge from backstage. My clapping slows, then stops, as each of them in turn passes us and glares, a mixture of disdain and pity that makes my heart sink. The first is Red Team Leader. He’ll be leading my team, according to a red spot glowing on the table in front of me. He takes a moment to scowl specifically at me, then shakes his head, then forces a smile and salutes as he turns to the audience. “Captain Daniels. Marine lieutenant, fifteen years. Purple Heart. NASA test pilot, AceSpace astronaut. Red Team Leader and Mission Commander.”

  Four more gods follow in succession, all AceSpace veterans, each as impressive as Captain Daniels: Reagan Malone, prior NASA Space Station Engineer, Green Team Leader; Dylan Garcia, A.I. developer, Yellow Team Leader; Drew Innes, PhD in physics and rocketry, Orange Team Leader; and Skylar Gaines, USAF fighter pilot with an MD and PhD in biology, Blue Team Leader. They bow in unison and exit the stage, once again scowling at us, I imagine going off to their dungeon lair to perfect the tortures they’ll be subjecting us to over the next twelve weeks. Any remaining beliefs that this show will mimic a civilized, high-tech astronaut training program are gone. This is going to be boot camp.

  “Now contestants… have a good night. You deserve the rest. And you’ll need it, trust me. Fun, fun, fun!” We rise to follow the chaperones off stage, beyond exhausted, asleep on our feet, and I have the strong sense that the audience, and people around the world, are now making their bets, picking their winner and mentally discarding the losers. Larson seems to have the same thought, because as we pass him, he issues this dramatic challenge: “And finally, something to ponder in your dreams tonight, contestants… which one of you, and it will be just one, has what it takes? Which one of you, like the mythical scarab beetle of millennia past, will be reborn and usher in a rebirth for all mankind?” Then he lowers his voice, as if sharing a confidence. “And which one of you will bring back the secrets that Mars has yet to reveal?”

  The secrets that Mars has yet to reveal.

  I repeat his last thought over and over again, there’s something about the way he said it, and as I’m led zombie-like toward my room, a question pops into my mind that sticks around like an itch that can’t quite be scratched:

  What does Zach Larson know?

  21

  The Luxurious Accomodations

  I dream they put us in small, cramped rooms with two bunks, top and bottom, no bathroom, and no windows. It smells in my dream, like stale food and something vaguely burning. It smells like home. Not in a good way.

  As I begin to wake, though, eyes still puffy and shut, I stretch out my arms and legs on the big, beautiful bed I’ve seen in the commercials for the show, and smile, knowing that it was just a bad dream. In reality I’ll be staying in a private, luxurious four-star-hotel room for the next twelve weeks, complete with a private bath and panoramic view of a park just outside the TV studio. I sit up and-

  “OUCH!”

  I hit my head.

  I open my eyes to see what dared to interrupt my peaceful waking moments.

  A bunk. Above me.

  There are two bunks. And no bathroom. And no windows. If I reach out a little more I can touch both walls at once.

  And it smells in here.

  It wasn’t just a bad dream.

  My arms and legs are hanging off a smaller bed than I can believe a person can sleep on, even smaller than my bed at home. Maybe Voomvoom could sleep on this bed, it’s bigger than the back seat of a car at least. Barely. As I stare up at the bottom of the top bunk, at the crossbar that probably made a permanent indentation in my forehead, I don’t see any human limbs hanging over the edges, and silently thank God that at least the producers have spared me an annoying roommate, someone who would, in very small but constant ways, irritate the shit out of me until I volunteer myself off the show and disappear forever just like my mother. Yes, thank God, at least I’m alone.

  “Hi.”

  I scream as a head peeks down from the top bunk, offering a hand to shake.

  “Sorry. Oh, that’s right. You just came in last night. You didn’t know about this.”

  I tentatively take his hand and shake it. At least I think it’s a “he.” Its hair hangs down a foot, I can’t see the face, and it’s wearing some kind of bead bracelet. I look around, aghast. “What about… the big bed…? The park…?”

  “The luxurious accommodations, right? Yeah, uh, for the commercials I think they were going for a you-won’t-believe-how-extravagant-this-is-going-to-be thing. To get the celebrities interested? I don’t know. But when we got here, I got here a week ago, they told us that was all bullshit, and we better get used to cramped quarters if we’re going to Mars.” He smiles. “It’s not so bad when you start to see it from that perspective. Like part of training. Like what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger kind of thing. Anyway, I’m Benji. Greenberg.”

  It’s a he. Wonderful. I turn over and pull the blanket over my head. “And I’m going back to bed.”

  But my hope of falling asleep, to wake up to that other reality, the one with the big bed, is dashed immediately when someone bursts through the door.

  Benji whispers from the top bunk. “By the way, the doors don’t have locks. Nothing does. Good to know.”

  And the person who barged in shouts, “Have you seen this?!”

  I instantly know who it is – Aurora. Well, in-front-of-the-cameras Aurora anyway.

  A roll of toilet paper hangs from her finger. “Smith. Get up. Have you seen this shit? It’s like a bad college dorm. I mean, come o-” and she interrupts herself with hysterical laughter.

  I peek out from under the blanket. “What?”

  “They put you with the nerd.” She points to the top bunk. “That’s rich.”

  “He’s not a nerd.” I don’t know why I’m defending this Benji person, I’ve only known him for five seconds. But I don’t like anyone being called names. “And what’s wrong with being a nerd?”

  “Oooh. I see. They set you up. Nerd couple. Cute.” She bends over laughing.

  I shoot to my feet, angry, but remember Nana’s words: Calm down. Solve the problem. I take a deep breath. “Aurora. Is everything all right?”

  “No. As a matter of fact it isn’t. This place is a shithole, like we’re in the army or something. Where’s my private bathroom? I’m on my way to complain to Larson right now. He’s a fucking liar. And I’m hungover, my head is about to explode, last night was a blur, so that doesn’t help at al- hey…!”

  “Hey?”

  She leans in and whispers, looking around at the numerous unseen cameras that will record every second of our lives for the next three months. “Hey. Speaking of blurs. What did we talk about? Last night? On that space ship thing?”

  I whisper back. “Um, nothing.”

  She pushes herself back, into the doorway. “Good. Because you’re all sweet and innocent, and I like you, and maybe in a different life who knows, but… you’re going down. Sorry. Just the way it has to be. I’ve got a competition to win.” She flips her hair back and storms down the hallway, hunting Zach Larson.

  Benji jumps off the top bunk and peeks his head out the doorway after her. “She seems nice.”

  “Were you here just now? Like four seconds ago?”

  “Hey, isn’t that the girl that won America Sings?”

  “Runner up.”

  “Oh yeah. Runner up. So… you’re friends?”

  I rub my forehead where the crossbar smacked me. “I don’t know.”

  22

  Pushups

  Interview with Tanner Byron, contestant number 14, the oldest contestant on You’re Going to Mars! at 52 years old:

  “I’ve been running marathons since I was in college. I’m probably in better shape now than I’ve ever been. But it’s not just the running. It’s the beet juice. Do you have any idea how many micronutrients are in beet juice? The glutathione boost alone, I mean, blood pressure, cholesterol – it’
s pretty much the perfect food. Sure, my shit’s bright red, but who sees that? Or do you guys see that? I hadn’t thought, with all the cameras and everything. Oh, sorry, what, Mars? Yes of course, I can’t wait to make it to Mars. Another giant step for mankind, right? Start a little beet farm in the greenhouse possibly. If I’m going off on the beet thing too much just let me know.”

  They’ve got us marching down the hall in our color-coded training suits, out to the Great Hall, a massive space complete with separate gym areas for each team, our communal dining space, a computer sandbox testing area, and a lounge. And, of course, more cameras than one could count.

  “Hey.”

  It’s Aurora. She sidles up next to me and brushes my shoulder. I notice the number patch on her shirt. “Aurora. You were the last one in. How did you get number one?”

  “Because I’m number one.”

  “No really. I was the twenty-fifth one in, and mine says ‘twenty-five.’ You came in last.”

  She grins and puffs out her chest, showing off the big white oh-one. “Squeaky wheel. Larson is scared of me. It’s the least he could do, that liar. Some poor sap Avery woke up with a twenty-six on her shirt. I saw her looking around, bewildered. It was pretty funny.”

  “Hilarious.”

  She leans in and whispers. “Hey. Guess what Captain Daniels’ first name is.”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. Rick? Jack? Something with a chiseled chin.”

  “It’s Daniel.”

  “No.”

  “Yup. Daniel Daniels.”

  “Wow. I thought my mother was terrible.”

  “Right? But just so you know, I found out something else too. If you need some brownie points, call him ‘DanDan.’ He likes that. Puts a skip in his step.”

  “No way. Wait. Really?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  We enter the Great Hall, each team heading over to its Team Leader. Captain Dan Daniels – I’m still having a hard time with the name – looks at his watch. “You’re late.”

  I take a quick glance up at the clock, next to a giant display with all our names on it. It’s ten seconds past seven o’clock. We’re ten seconds late. Somehow I think this tells me all I will ever need to know about Captain Daniels.

  He barks, “Claire Soams.”

  Claire raises her hand.

  “Put your hand down, Soams. Just say ‘Present, sir.’”

  “Present, sir.” She bats her eyelashes at him.

  “Is there something wrong with your eyes, Soams?”

  “Um, no. Sorry, sir.”

  “Good. Mike Horner.”

  “Present, sir.”

  “Benji Greenberg.”

  “Present, sir.”

  “Robin Smith.”

  “Present, sir.”

  He looks down at his tablet again. “Smith. Not a very awe inspiring name, is it?”

  “No sir. My mother couldn’t come up with anything better, sir.”

  My teammates laugh – and immediately regret it. Daniels isn’t laughing. “Well, well, I’m glad to see we’re all in good spirits this morning. Let’s celebrate by giving me fifty. All of you.”

  Benji raises his hand.

  “Goldberg?”

  “Greenberg. Fifty what, sir?”

  Daniels jiggles Benji’s twig-thin arms. “Fifty whatever you think you can handle. In your case, I wouldn’t start with pushups.”

  It’s comical, of course. I can maybe handle fifty pushups, so I start in. And Mike Horner, angling for that role on Star Wars Fifteen, is in top shape, he can probably do a couple of hundred without raising his heart rate. But Benji resorts to some form of situp-type thing I don’t even recognize, he looks like he’s having a seizure, and my last teammate, Claire – I almost start giggling. She’s standing doing bicep curls. With no weights. Just curling her empty arms up and down, up and down, and counting. She spies me watching out of the corner of her eye, and winks. “Feel the burn. Do you feel it, Robin?”

  “I feel the burn, Claire.”

  Daniels squats in front of me. “Did I ask you to talk?”

  “No, sir. Sorry sir.”

  “Well you’ve earned twenty more, Smith. Keep it up.”

  “Hey, what about Claire? She was talki-”

  “Thirty more. Want to try for forty?”

  Oh well. It looks like he’s making me the example. Fun.

  Somewhere around thirty-five, a memory pops into my brain: when I was little, the three of us used to take turns sitting on Dad’s back while he did pushups. You’d never know it from his hang-dog look and his spare tire, but he’s amazingly strong. So we would take turns, and eventually all three of us would pile on, and he would eke out one or two more pushups, and collapse, then roll over and start wrestling all of us at once. We would win, naturally, the Farris Triple Team, but only because he let us win. Every time.

  My family. I’ve never been apart from them, not for a single day, and now they might as well be 140 million miles away.

  A tear mixes with my sweat and falls to the floor.

  Daniels, still squatting in front of me, considers the tear. For a fleeting moment I think he feels compassion for the first time in his life, because he says, “Hey, Smith. You want to hear something inspiring?”

  “Yes, sir. I would like to hear something inspiring.”

  “There’ve been more Smiths in space than any other name.”

  “Yes sir. Twenty-eight sir.” I look up at him and grin. He raises an eyebrow. “Well look at you. You’re actually right.”

  Hmm. He looks marginally pleased. Maybe it’s time to rack up a few of those brownie points. “Thanks, DanDan.”

  His eyes widen and he growls. “What did you just call me?”

  “Um, nothing, sir! I’m sorry! Aurora said-”

  He kicks my arm out from under me, my face smacking into the sweaty, teary mat. “If you ever call me that again I will have you booted off this mission faster than a peanut butter sandwich runs away from a bear. Now keep doing pushups until you throw up.”

  I collapse around seventy-five, and flip over, exhausted, dry-heaving, staring up at the ceiling. My arms feel weaker than how Benji’s must feel all the time. He, Claire, and Mike stand at attention, quiet as mice, trying to avoid becoming the next example. Daniels stands over my body on the floor, looking upside down into my face. I make a mental note to never believe anything Aurora tells me ever again.

  A half hour later, my three teammates have joined me on the floor, panting, dry-heaving, wishing for death.

  “Okay, people. Good warmup. Let’s start your workout.”

  I groan, and Claire raises her hand tentatively. “S- s- start?”

  And for the first and last time that day, Daniels smiles.

  23

  The Big Board

  Endless hours and nonstop punishment later, we practically crawl on all fours with the other teams into the dining space. It’s sadistic, putting the food right next to the gym, just a few impossible steps away, achingly out of reach. I want to cry, unsure if my body will carry me the remaining distance to its life-giving sustenance.

  But it does. And I proceed to pile some of everything on my tray – no bologna sandwiches or blue food gel, thank you very much – steak, mac and cheese, roasted turkey panini, mocha chocolate pie, and countless other goodies hidden somewhere under the top layer of food, with butter, like mortar, holding it all together, as a cameraman behind the counter documents my gluttony for the world to see. I don’t care.

  We plop down, exhausted and hungry, at Red Table. The other team tables surround us, everyone equally ravenous, and the sound of livestock gorging at the trough fills the cavernous space.

  Claire sets down her two plates – yes, two plates – and strategizes where to start. “Oh my. This is even better than breakfast. How am I supposed to lose weight with twelve weeks of this?”

  Mike Horner holds up a forkful of salad with the thinnest, see-through sliver of boiled chicken breast you
’ve ever seen. Wow. That’s restraint. “I guarantee they’re weaning us off. By week twelve it’ll be nothing but gray paste and protein pellets.”

  Claire grimaces at his thought, then looks down at her pie and rediscovers her joy. “Well, then seize the day, am I right? Seize it!” She licks her lips.

  I’m already attacking my plate like it owes me money.

  “Whoa. Robin. You ever eat before?”

  I answer Benji with a mouth full of prime rib. “Sorry, it’s just… this is sooo good… you haven’t tasted my Nana’s cooking. Or my mother’s.”

  “I thought you lived on a farm. Alone.”

  “Um, yeah, uh, I mean way back when.” Change the subject. “Hey, what’s that?” I point up to the huge screen between the gym and the cafeteria, it must be thirty feet wide at least, above the lounge area with couches and beanbags. The screen lists our teams and our names with our contestant number. Another number next to each of our names fluctuates up and down.