You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

  The shouts from the Blue Team, currently just ahead of us in points, grow louder. “She’s cheating! Stop the competition!” But the cheers from the audience drown them out. “Claire! Claire! Claire!”

  We’re doing it. Claire is slowly but surely moving up the wall, her sobs reduced to sniffles, with me underneath pushing, emitting little whimpers of pain. She whispers down to me. “You poor thing, Robin. Are you okay?”

  “Feeling the burn, Claire.”

  “Your poor ribs! Is there anything I can do? Shift my weight a certain way?”

  “No. Just whatever you do, don’t fart.”

  The cheers reach a crescendo as Claire claws her way to the summit, stands up, knees wobbling, and pulls the chain, ringing the finish line bell. She reaches down and pulls me up the final foot, and throws her arms around my neck, practically choking me, and sobs again, this time for joy. The points on the board show two hundred thirteen. We’re ahead of last place by two points. And our Likes are increasing so fast it’s just a blur.

  The crowd claps and cheers, and sings together:

  There she goes, to the show

  Will she win? Heck if we know!

  But she’ll give it her best, take a shot

  Against the losers, the rest of that lot!

  Walk to the launch pad, aim for the stars

  Don’t close your eyes, You’re Going to Mars!

  It’s sweet, and thrilling beyond the beyond, but as I dare sneak a glance over at Zach Larson, I’m positive he’ll be shaking his head, and boot us from the competition for this flagrant disregard of the rules of his ridiculous game.

  But he’s grinning up at me.

  And it strikes me: of course he loves this. Not only did this make the show even more exciting – people will sure as hell be arguing about it at work tomorrow – but hadn’t he done the same thing to get to this point in life? Make up his own rules? Own the game? Change the game itself if he needed to?

  The Blue Team’s having none of it. They rush over to Larson, grousing and pointing, demanding our expulsion, or at least for a fair try at doing the same.

  Larson shushes them and takes to the microphone, addressing us all. “Blue Team. All teams. Our audience. The people at home, all over the world. What you’ve witnessed may not seem fair. But it is not cheating. Our assumptions told us tonight’s competition required a person, alone, to run the course. But the single rule states: ‘Each contestant will enter the course alone.’” He flashes a sly grin. “It does not say anything about finishing the course alone.” He twirls around, challenging the audience. “Now consider this: there may be a moment, on the voyage of High Heaven, when rules aren’t enough. When fairness simply doesn’t apply. When life is at stake. What’s to be done then? Complain? Die because of some arbitrary rules? No! Our crew will have to ignore their assumptions, their preconceived notions of ‘fairness,’ and use every resource, every creative and unorthodox solution, to work together, to complete their mission. To stay alive.” He points up at me. “I ask you all, who would you want in that moment?”

  The crowd chants “Robin! Robin! Robin!” and I look down at the rest of my team, Benji and Mike, grinning wide, even Captain Daniels looks slightly proud-ish, and when I look back up to the Big Board to see us still in the game, I smush up Claire’s cheeks and give her a big fat kiss, and we laugh and cry and raise our hands together into the air.

  Second-to-last-place and two broken ribs never felt so good.

  The Blue Team is added to the Wall of Heroes – though they don’t go into the sunset quietly, in fact I think I hear the word “attorney” being shouted from the departing bus – and the Green Team, led by Aurora, receives Red Scarab medals just like on the Olympics. Larson even has an Olympic-style podium there for the first, second, and third place teams. While the show’s anthem plays, though we’re nowhere near the winners’ podium, Claire, Benji, Mike, and myself hold hands, knowing we’ve won the night, and made it a step closer to Mars.

  After the cheesy-but-awesome ceremony, Aurora saunters over, flashing her medal. “Hey Robenji. Shiny, huh?”

  Benji reaches out and holds it up, examining it. “Aluminum with gold electroplate. This must’ve cost them at least three credits. Congratulations.”

  She snatches it back. “Oh hush.” Turns to me. “Well, look who’s making up her own rules now.” And pokes me in the ribs. The searing pain feels like she stabbed me with a knife.

  “OUCH! WHAT THE HELL?”

  “Whoops. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t faking it. I see you’re not. Sorry.”

  I’d like to punch her in the face for that, but her apology actually sounds sincere, and punching people in the face on live TV isn’t really my thing. “Uh, hey, congratulations, Aurora. You guys really knocked it out of the park.”

  “We did, didn’t we?”

  Marina Delacosta walks over too, and we exchange niceties, and as her and Mike flirt, I don’t know why, my eyes sort of land on Aurora’s shirt, on her number patch, the number One. Zero one. Oh one. Something about that number, it reminds me of something.

  Oh my god.

  My mother.

  That picture of her being arrested. One hand in a circle. One hand giving the finger. Oh and one. Oh One.

  My mother isn’t getting sloppy. She got arrested on purpose. To have her picture taken. She knew one way or another I’d see it. And she’s sending me a warning:

  Watch out for Aurora.

  Aurora taps my shoulder. “Watcha thinkin’, sneaky?”

  “Nothing.”

  28

  I Need to Get Back and Destroy Everything.

  Interview with Eddie “Torch” Smith, least Likes at Stage One and latest addition to the Wall of Heroes:

  “Nah, I’m not pissed I’m leaving. Hey. I got to go to space, sort of almost. That’s pretty cool, right? And I got fifty thousand credits. I’m gonna use it to start a deli, I think I’m gonna call it Mars Deli. Mostly sandwiches with wicked cool names, like the ‘Red Planet,’ I think that’s gonna be chicken parm with red sauce, some black olives, splash of sriracha. The ‘Lander’ is gonna have – get this – gold leaf foil on the roll. I’m gonna charge a thousand credits for that sandwich. You ever see that on TV, the really expensive sandwiches, they go viral and shit. It’s gonna be sweet. What? What do I think of Robin Smith? Who’s that? Oh, the one who pushed Claire up the rock thing? Yeah, she’s awesome. Rule breaker. Great last name, of course, Smith, like me. Yeah, of course it would be cool to have another Smith be the first person on Mars. If she wins I’ll name a sandwich after her. I’ll call it ‘The Smith.’”

  I rush back from the MedBay. My ribs feel much better, strangely better. It’s the second time I’ve experienced mainland medical technology, but it still feels like a miracle. A few passes with a large wand, a special electronic bandage, a night in one of their “tanks,” and the pain virtually disappeared.

  The rest of me, however, feels terrible. Panicked. I have to get back to my stuff. There are no locks anywhere, it was one of Larson’s little tricks, ostensibly to promote “openness,” but really to generate an exciting-for-TV level of paranoia, resentment, and hilarious “whoops!” moments when one contestant catches another in stages of undress, or on the toilet, or picking a zit, or having a fight, et cetera.

  I wish I’d thought of it sooner: keeping any proof of my past life will put me in danger of being revealed as a resident of Fill City One, and that’ll get me kicked off the show, and there goes my one chance at leaving this planet, and I don’t even want to think about what it would mean for my safety. Or my family’s. A shudder rolls up my spine as the name Gitano enters my mind. I’ve kept my belongings out of sight of the cameras, way back in one of my cubbies, but if Aurora starts snooping around…

  I need to get back, and regardless of my nostalgia, destroy everything.

  Except my baby sweater. I can’t do that.

  And I’m not sure about the poem. That’s not incriminating, i
s it?

  A sound.

  There’s no one else in the hallway, it’s after curfew (at least officially). But I swear I heard something close to my left.

  There. Again. Like a humming or something.

  A door. Next to me. I never noticed. I put my ear up against it, and instantly the humming sound stops. I wait for a moment, as silent as possible. The humming starts again.

  “Aurora?”

  The humming stops.

  “Aurora, is that you?”

  Nothing.

  Then in a flash the door swings in, an arm reaches out and jerks me inside. The door slams shut, and we’re in blackness.

  “Shhhh.”

  “Aurora, what are you doing?”

  “I found a safe space.”

  “A safe space? Hey, can we turn on a light?”

  “Whoops.” She flicks her flashlight on, and a sharp beam of light blinds me. “Shit. Sorry.” She redirects the flashlight up to the ceiling. We’re in a tiny storage closet, surrounded by shelves and boxes. “Safe space. No cameras, no microphones. You can’t tell anyone. Promise.”

  “Promise. Why were you humming?” I spy a notebook in her other hand as she sits down on an empty crate. “No. Let me guess. Rocket Girl.”

  “Hey! How did you kno- ahh, the first flight, wasn’t it? Loose lips.”

  I nod.

  “I was pretty drunk. Well, thanks for not saying anything to anyone, very cool of you to keep my little secret. Oh, hey, speaking of drunk.” She laughs and reaches behind her and holds up a bottle of something. “Tequila. Pull up a crate.”

  “Hey, I thought we weren’t supposed to have any contact with the outside world? That was like the one rule.”

  “Listen to you, rule breaker. Here, take a swig.”

  “What’s it taste like?”

  “You’ve never had tequila? Cooped up alone on that little farm of yours? I’d think you’d be drowning yourself in tequila from the boredom.” She slides a crate across the floor and passes me the bottle. “Here’s to secrets.”

  I gulp a mouthful of the liquor, way too much it turns out, and it burns like jet fuel sliding down my throat. “OUCH! WHAT THE HELL?!”

  “Shhhh!” She laughs. “And take it easy, leave some for me.”

  “Gross. You can have the rest.”

  “Yeah. Five minutes from now you’ll be grabbing it back, I promise.”

  Sure enough, five minutes later, a little warm disorientation is creating a perma-smile on my face, and my fingers involuntarily reach out for the bottle. “So Aurora… do you still not want to win?”

  “Wow. I told you a lot on that flight, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Whatever. The plan was to get out mid-way, and release the album just as the High Heaven was starting its voyage. But now, it’s happening again. I can feel it. The rage. I’m too competitive.”

  “Uh, you think?”

  She laughs. “When I stood on that stage next to Tucker, they made me congratulate him for winning America Sings!, but really I could’ve ripped his throat out right there in front of a billion people. I just wanted to win. Whatever it took. There’s nothing worse than second place. I don’t even care about the prize. Just the winning. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really. I want the prize. I want to go to Mars more than anything else.”

  “I guess that’s the normal person response. Or the normal nerd person response anyway. So why do nerds want to go to Mars?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for all nerds, but there’s this feeling I have, I’ve never told anyone…”

  She pushes the bottle at me. “Go on…”

  “Where I come from never felt like home. Like maybe Mars would feel more like home.”

  “What, like you’re family’s a nightmare?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. They’re wonderful. I just…” I trail off. The booze is threatening to open the vault.

  She nudges my knee. “Where did you come from?”

  I think of my mother and her warning. “It’s, ah, complicated.” Turn my flashlight to her notebook. “So, whatcha working on?”

  “Complicated. I get it.” She takes another swig from the bottle. “I’m working on the title song.” She clears her throat and sings:

  “Rocket Girl / I’m goin’ far

  Gotta leave now / Sail through the stars

  If you look real hard / I’m that dot in the black

  Will you be waitin’ / If I ever get back?

  Will you be waitin’ / If I ever get back?”

  I don’t know why, something’s definitely wrong with my damn tear ducts in the past two weeks, because I find myself, yet again, wiping back wetness from my cheeks.

  “Awww, Robin. You like it.”

  “Yes. I like it very much. But I think that’s the tequila talking.”

  She smacks my knee. “Ha! You sound like my two sisters.”

  I think I gasp, because she raises an eyebrow. “What? Can’t imagine me having sisters?”

  “No. I mean yes. I mean, it’s funny. I… have two sisters too.”

  “Huh. Maybe that’s why we’re here together. Surrogate sisters.”

  She raises the bottle, takes a sip, and hands it to me. And we laugh, and sing, and compare notes on the other contestants, and talk about our dreams.

  Like sisters.

  Some vague cloud of time later, I shuffle into my room, buzzed, smiling. It’s a good feeling, almost like having a little family with me, way out here in the artificial world of a Burbank television studio. I half-remember about checking my belongings, giggling to myself at how paranoid I had been. I really was becoming my mother there for a second. Ha! And to think she was giving me some silly signal through a police photograph? That is absolutely nuts.

  I pull my satchel from its cubby, more from nostalgia than fear, and turn on my little reading light. It’ll be nice to mix this feeling I’m having with some concrete memories of the people I’ve left behind. The contents spill onto my bed, and I grin. Sure enough, everything is there. The Zach Larson poster. The braid of hair. The poem. Of course, my baby sweater. I pull it to my face and inhale the past, the smell of the fire, but also of my whole life. And yes, even my mother’s Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card is there, reminding me that although she’s certifiably insane, she cares about me deeply. Yes, it’s all there, as I expected.

  Wait.

  No.

  Something’s missing.

  It takes a few seconds, in my semi-incapacitated state, to search my memory for what it is. It has something to do with them all: Nana, Dad, Rock, Scissors, Duggie, and, I think, even Tom Bradlin-

  Oh no.

  The photo.

  Greetings from Fill City One. Wish you were here!

  Panicked and suddenly sober, I dig my hands into the depths of the satchel. Nothing. Shuffle the items around on my bed. Nothing. Bolt around our little room, banging into things and turning on all the lights, searching, searching. Nothing.

  “Mmmrrphh…? Robin…? That you…?”

  “It’s okay, Benji. Go back to sleep.”

  But it’s not okay. It’s anything but okay. I search everywhere. Under the bed. Behind the drawers. Still nothing. I sit down, hands shaking, and face two possibilities:

  Either I lost the photo, which is entirely possible, so much has happened to this satchel in the past few weeks, or…

  Aurora took the photo.

  And she knows.

  She knows my secret.

  And she’ll do anything to win.

  29

  Stage Two

  Interview with Marina Delacosta, contestant number 9, daughter of owner of half of Italy, Franco Delacosta

  “Si. Yes. We are taking a little trip this morning. Ted thought he would surprise me, but I am up at four already! Every day I do this now. I’m-a very excited. I have to admit, this experience, my Papa thought it would be good for me, for his princess to spread her wings, like a swan, I don’t know if tha
t’s the correct saying, forgive me, but I did not want to go. I say to Papa, I say, “Papa! You cannot make me! Mars? Are you insano?” And he says, “Per me, principessa. Solo questa volta. Just this once. Per Papà. Per favore. Please.” And I make-a him buy me a yacht, a very big one, maybe the biggest, I don’t know. And I come on the show. And you know what? He was right. I am a new woman. Maybe woman for the first time. I am strong. I feel invincible. I don’t need the yacht no longer. I can have it all. What? Who? Mike Horner? Si. Yes. I know who he is. He seems like a nice man. I barely know him. Why? What did you see?”

  I have all the time in the world to obsess about last night, about Aurora and the photo, as Ted wakes me up at four a.m. along with the other remaining contestants, and herds us onto two transports for a long and secret mystery ride to Stage Two.

  I also have all the time in the world to deeply experience my first ever, head-splitting hangover. In my stifling spacesuit, on a moving transport, over bumpy highways (or at least they feel like bumpy highways to me), every pebble and divot, for miles and miles, the windows clouded so we can’t see where we’re headed. I have to ask Benji to get up so many times to run to the bathroom he finally just sighs. “You take the aisle seat.”

  “Sorry, Benji. Ugh. Aurora is such a bad influence.”

  “I could use some bad influence.”

  “Trust me. You don’t want to be feeling the way I’m feeling right now.”

  “How’d she sneak booze into the compound?”

  “Are you really surprised Aurora found a way to sneak booze into the compound?”

  Benji shrugs. “Hey, want to hear a chicken joke?”

  I shrug back. “No.”

  “So there’s a kid, and he says, ‘Mommy, how do they know whether an egg will be eaten, or hatch and become a chick?’ The mom smiles and pats his head. ‘Honey, the farmer looks carefully and knows. He sends the ones we eat to the supermarket, and saves the ones that hatch.’ The kid coughs, and out pops a chick. The chick wipes itself off and shouts, ‘Yeah, well that idiot farmer needs a new pair of fucking glasses!’”