You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

  Oh boy, this is going to be some finale.

  We finish eating, every crumb of Suzie Q’s apple crisp, and waddle, buzzed, over to the terraform dome for Aurora’s presentation. Mike and Marina hold hands, of course, are their hands ever not intertwined now? And Suzie Q sidles up to Albert, and he doesn’t step away this time. I wonder if this is what it felt like to be at the old drive-in movies. I suddenly feel the space next to me extremely empty.

  Aurora, now in her spacesuit, flips her hair a little, locks her helmet in place, steps into the terraforming dome, and begins her show. “In 1836, Charles Darwin visited Ascension Island, a barren volcanic outgrowth between South America and Africa, and vowed to create a lush preserve. Through trial and error, new plants took hold, and eventually, now two hundred and fifty years later, Ascension Island is a paradise, a beautiful, cloudy forest.”

  She spreads her arms, and a light shines on a little seedling, barely an inch tall, next to a small pool of water, in a sub-dome in the middle, maybe three feet diameter by three feet high. “In just three weeks, we were able to alter the gas content in this sub-dome, and create a stable, oxygen-rich environment. Enough to grow this teeny-weeny plant.” She locks her legs straight and starts to sing:

  Life, from nothing / From just the hope

  Of a few driven people / Who believed

  Precarious, fragile / Just like us

  On hope and faith conceived

  For a moment, the competition slips away, and we look around at each other, and I think we’d all like to go to Mars together. I’d even take Avery with us.

  “Hey. So where are the points?”

  Huh. Benji’s right. Up above, the Big Board is clicking away with the Likes, but the points have stalled for days. “Isn’t this it? Isn’t the stage over?”

  In answer, as Aurora finishes her song, the Board flashes a note across its top: Please return to the dining table, and each contestant retrieve a tablet.

  So we make our way back and sit around the big table. Aurora unclicks her helmet and plops it among the dirty plates. Claire motions to the mess. “Maybe we’re supposed to do the dishes first?”

  But our tablets wake up and sync, and Zach Larson’s voice fills the dome: “Congratulations! You’ve completed your tasks. Ah, with the notable exception of the mining team. You’ll be happy to know Jayden is recuperating nicely, and Avery, dear, we’ve been watching you closely, and the good news is you’re fine. Apparently the experts are fairly certain you’re faking it.”

  Avery slumps in her chair and scowls. “Pffft!”

  “In any case, someone asked about points. For Stage Two, we’re going to do something a little different.” A list of all the other contestants appears on my tablet. “You’re going to give points… to each other.”

  We peer around at each other. So much for the camaraderie we were feeling a minute ago. This is war. First, we’ll give ourselves and own team members the highest scores-

  Larson interrupts my thought. “I know what you’re thinking. But you’re only allowed to award points to contestants on other teams.”

  Hmmm. What to do? Aurora, for example: I should give her a zero, right? She’s clearly the strongest contestant, a far cry from the drunk singer I thought she was, and what she lacks in technical know-how she more than makes up for in sheer competitive tenacity. If I’m going to Mars, she’s the one to get rid of. If everyone else is thinking the same thing, there’s a chance…

  Wait! Listen to me! What’s happening to me? Yes, I would do anything to get on this mission, but… anything?

  No.

  I will not cheat. Yes, it’s true, I kind of made up my own rules in Stage One. But… I don’t know, I was lifting someone up then. Literally lifting Claire’s ass up that rock. It felt like I was giving. This time I would be dragging someone down. Taking. It’s a fine line, but whatever. This doesn’t feel right.

  I give Aurora the maximum twenty points. She deserves it.

  We sit in silence, tapping away, watching the tallies on the Big Board. It doesn’t take long, but it feels like forever. Regardless of our performance, contestants could, at least theoretically, send any team home. But as the numbers slow down, then stop, it’s clear everyone’s been basically objective, and there are no surprises.

  Except one.

  38

  Second Place

  I have to look twice at the board. To make sure my eyes are working.

  I have two hundred ten points. I’m in the lead.

  Aurora has two hundred three.

  I beat her.

  It doesn’t matter, really, both our teams, Red and Green, as well as Yellow, will advance to Stage Three. Poor Orange Team, as expected, will go home. And Sophia got the fewest Likes, so she can now build that doghouse for her ungrateful husband. But I let out a little yelp of excitement anyway. I can’t help it. Aurora glares at me. She’s fuming. “But- but- I sang to you guys!” She’s up now, pacing back and forth, pointing everywhere. “She… dug some holes in the ground! Big deal!”

  Benji raises his hands. “Whoa. You dug holes, too. And what’s the difference? Both our teams made it. Calm down, Aurora.”

  “Calm down? I’ll tell you what the difference is. I saved your lives!”

  “What’s wrong with you, Aurora? You came in second place. Big deal.”

  Uh-oh.

  He said the words. Second place. This is bad. Very bad.

  I have just put Aurora, runner-up on America Sings, into second place. For the second time in her life. I cringe as Mike opens his mouth. “Listen, Aurora, you’re awesome, and you’re both into the next stage, but just for the sake of argument, between just the two of you, who do you think is more qualified for this Mars mission? Robin, whose hobby is rockets, or you – a singer?”

  Aurora looks like she just got kicked in the stomach. And then a rage rises in her face, a blistering rage I haven’t seen yet.

  Oh no.

  “Robin?! You think that’s her real name?”

  Yup. Here we go.

  Benji jumps out of his chair to my defense. Admirable. “Yes! Robin! What the hell are you talking about?”

  Admirable, yes, but I already know it’s too late. Aurora reaches into a pocket of her suit, and I’m not surprised when I see the photo of myself, surrounded by my family. Greetings from Fill City One! Wish you were here! She shoves it in my face, then slowly turns so each person and the cameras can see clearly. “Robin Smith? Really?”

  It is done.

  Shock on each of their faces. “You’re… a Filler?”

  I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. Tears stream down my face. I look up at Aurora. “…why?…”

  She stares down at me with a strange expression, filled with rage and pity and… something else. She’s holding herself back from crying. “You lied to me… I gave you so many chances to come clean… I wanted you to… I begged you to… do you have any idea how many times I’ve been lied to?”

  “I’m so sorry. I just needed to escape. Like you.”

  “We could’ve… I… loved you.”

  And then the lights go out.

  39

  Like a Sister, You Idiots!

  In the dark there are gasps and murmurs, and I think I hear Claire stifle a giggle.

  Aurora pounds her helmet on the table. “Like a sister, you idiots! I loved her like a sister! What’s wrong with you people? Is that all you can think about in here? You know you can love someone like that, without getting all hormonal, for crying out loud. God. Now will somebody turn on the damn lights?”

  I’m numb, closing my eyes against the reality of what just happened, but I sense people scrambling for flashlights, heading for the CPU to find out what’s going on.

  I just sit there, alone, paralyzed, in the blackness. I can’t remember anything ever feeling this dark, maybe before I was born, in my mother’s womb. Before I started.

  And now I’m over already.

  I’m going deep into the fill. There’s
no way the Gitanos will let me live after this. Daring to break their cardinal law in front of the entire world.

  Aurora just signed my death sentence.

  I hear a sniffle. I open my eyes. It’s her. I’m not alone. She’s still here.

  “I’m a dead woman, Aurora.”

  The sniffle stops.

  “Yes, I lied to you Aurora. I lied to everyone. I had to change my name, my whole story, just to make it here. Do you know what the Gitanos do to people like me?”

  “Gitanos. Don’t know who you’re talking about. Is that another lie?”

  “The people who control Fill City. You step out of line like this, they make you disappear. Gone. Into the fill. So thanks for that.”

  “Don’t try to turn this around on me. You should have told me the truth.”

  “I wanted to. I almost did, many times. You should know that, somewhere inside you I think you do. I don’t like lying. Lying isn’t who I am.”

  “Really. Then who are you?”

  “I’m…” But I have no answer. I’ve come so far, been reborn into something new… but what? Am I still me, Paper Farris? Am I still a Filler? Or am I someone that’s grown comfortable putting on a mask, the mask of Robin Smith? Or am I somewhere in the middle, like my hair now, bleach blonde tips and dark brown roots?

  Who the hell am I?

  I don’t have time to answer. Mike and Albert rush back. “Something’s up. And it’s not just us. It’s the main dome.”

  We rush over to see our team leaders, and more of those quarantine suit guys, wildly waving their arms from behind the wall of the main dome, about ten yards away. What the heck? Where were all these people hiding? It’s like a clown car over there.

  And then from behind them emerges a man with a message on a tablet.

  It’s Zach Larson.

  He presses the tablet against the wall, and its message reads: Put your spacesuits on. Now.

  40

  Sabotage

  I pick up a tablet to write back, and Aurora grabs it from me. “No. Let me.”

  She taps out: What the fuck, Larson? Is this another one of your tricks?

  Larson does not smile, or chuckle, or roll his eyes. He’s dead serious. I’ve never seen him with that look on his fa- wait. “What the hell is Larson doing in that dome?”

  “I guess he’s been living in there for three weeks, spying on us and waiting for us to kill or maim ourselves – which we did – so he could play God. Yeah, I’m talking about you, Larson. Are you hearing this, Larson?” She taps the wall.

  He shakes his head. His tablet reads: No com link. No power. No tricks. Put on your suits.

  Why?

  PPMM reversed in both domes. Losing air fast.

  Shut it down.

  Can’t. Locked out.

  Aurora taps furiously. Locked out? Shut it ALL down! YOU made this, idiot! She jabs a finger at him twice for emphasis.

  Larson hangs his head. Taps out one more message:

  Sabotage.

  Holy shit.

  That single word sends us all back to being a coop full of freaked-out chickens, falling over each other to rush back to our shelter domes to get our spacesuits and an extra hour of oxygen.

  But I can’t get into my dome.

  I shout across to the others. “Hey! Can anyone get in?”

  “No!”

  It’s pitch black, we have no power, our oxygen is running out – again, that’s twice but who’s counting – we can’t get to our spacesuits, and the very last thing the viewers around the world saw before their TVs went blank was Aurora exposing me as a Filler.

  This finale could be going slightly better.

  We run back to the wall and I tap a message: Power out. Why domes still active and not letting us in?

  Larson, now in full suit with helmet, types back: PPMM like inertial drive – without power, retains current state indefinitely for safety. Someone reversed airflow, then cut power. Backup generators cut too. We’re locked out. Put on suits!

  Can’t! Suits in shelter domes!

  Larson makes another face I haven’t seen yet, the I-can’t-believe-I-didn’t-think-of-that face. Apparently in the main dome they had a separate locker or something for their suits, because all of them have theirs on, and they forgot that we kept ours in our shelter domes. Geniuses. The only one with a suit on is Aurora from her terraforming presentation, which decidedly doesn’t help the rest of us. Larson turns to Captain Daniels and a couple of other techs and they debate something.

  May be hardware/software intrusion, Larson messages. A.I. virus. On daughterboard or such. Robin. Can you find it?

  “Wasn’t he watching? You’re not Robin. Duh.”

  “Not the time, Aurora!” I tap back, In the CPU?

  Larson nods.

  Albert and Benji and I make our way to the back of the CPU, and I remember: the wrench. Someone was here! But how did the cameras not see them? How did the CPU not know? I lay down, scooch in under the unit, looking up at the underside of the CPU shell, and sure enough: three bolts missing. The access panel above me is being held in by just one bolt. Whoever did this was in a rush. “Benji! Get me the half inch wrench!”

  He’s back in an instant. “Albert. Get under here with me.” I unbolt the panel, and a world of technology beyond my comprehension stares me in the face. “I have no idea what I’m looking for.” Albert points to the rows of mother boards. “If it’s a daughterboard, it’ll look like a puzzle piece out of place, maybe hanging off by a wire - there!”

  He reaches in and touches it lightly. “I’m going to pluck it out.”

  “Are you telling me that because you hope I have a better idea?”

  “I’m getting light-headed.”

  “Stop talking and take the damn thing out, Albert.”

  He’s right though. My eyes are starting to get a little wonky, and I have to shake my head to clear it. Our air is running out faster than I thought. “Hurry.”

  “I already did it.” He shows me the culprit, a tiny circuit board, yes, about the size of a puzzle piece. “So. Now what?”

  I slide back out – hitting my head, because of course – and run, a little woozy now, back to the wall. We hold out the little puzzle piece and shout, “Now what?”

  More furious silent debate in the other dome. Then Larson turns to me, and I swear to God… he shrugs. His message: Thought it might stop the virus.

  “Thought it might? You’re kidding me!” I grab the tablet from Aurora, for a moment wondering at the coincidence of her being the only one with a suit on, but quickly shaking the thought off. “Aurora. Clip your helmet on, you’ll have plenty of air, then grab everyone and do that tarp thing again with the B.A.G. and the outlet vent. If you grab one of the lifts, they have their own power source. You can connect the leads from the battery to the B.A.G. to restore its power at least for a few minutes, you know how, right?” She just stands there, sort of stunned, I guess she doesn’t have a snappy sarcastic rageful response ready.

  “You know how, right?!”

  She bolts, shouting at the others and getting the tarp ready.

  I type out a message to Larson: What if I try sudden electric current to PPMM?

  Possible. But PPMM in rigid state. Only letting out oxygen molecules. Nothing else can penetrate.

  Nothing, huh? I don’t even bother to write back.

  He’s obviously never seen what lift forks can do at forty miles an hour.

  I run over to the nearest lift, thanking God it has its own power. “Wake up.”

  “How may I help you, Robin Smith?”

  I almost laugh. The lift hadn’t gotten the memo yet. “Is there a way to route power into the forks themselves? Electrify them?”

  Hesitation. “No.”

  “Damn.”

  “I do not know what damn means, Robin Smith.”

  “It means I’m probably going to electrocute myself.” I hop out of the cab and rip open the battery panel. It’s massive, with severa
l positive and negative leads. Hop back in the cab. “Heads up display the least necessary wiring. I need two lengths, ten feet.”

  “Least necessary?”

  “I don’t know. Interior lighting. Anything.”

  The lift highlights the wiring diagram for the interior lighting. I duck under the dash, prying open the plastic panels, and start ripping wires out. Better hurry. Breathing is getting harder. I can’t see straight.

  “Robin Smith, that wire was not part of the wiring for…” Silence.

  “Whoops.” Oh well. No time to get the A.I. back online. I grab a screwdriver and rubber gloves out of the toolbox, go around to the side, attach a wire to each battery lead, then – extremely slowly and delicately – loosen a screw on each fork housing and fasten the wire.

  I have created a monster. Anything that touches these forks will be instantly electrocuted.

  I smile to myself, because this isn’t the first time I’ve done this exact thing. When we were sixteen or so, Duggie and I were learning about electrostatic induction – well, I was learning about it and Duggie was nodding his head between naps – and we – I – decided to make a lift into a giant capacitor to see if we could light up fluorescent bulbs between the forks. It worked, but it also caused a minor explosion – Fill City security called it major but no one died or even got hurt, so really? – landing Duggie and me suspension and a month of docked pay, and a forced part time job repairing the lifts for the rest of my life. But it was worth it to see Duggie’s yelps of glee and singed eyebrows. I liked to think Nana was actually impressed, because instead of grounding me for fifty years, she just muttered, “Teenagers!” and took away my TV privileges for a week. But America Sings! was on that night, we loved watching it together, and she couldn’t help herself, and we wound up cheering on Esther Jones into the finals and eating way too much popcorn. Nana can be such a pushover.