You're Going to Mars!

by Rob Dircks

  Whoa. Focus, Paper. You’re getting lightheaded. And don’t touch anything metal.

  I gingerly climb into the cab, moving the lift into place as far from the point of contact I want as possible. It’s not a straight run, and the A.I.’s down, so I can’t just send it at full speed and jump out. I’ll have to steer this thing until the last moment and try to make a dramatic leap to safety. Or die. I’m probably going to die.

  I punch the dash to maximum, and the lift builds up to twenty, thirty, then forty miles an hour. I only have seconds to say a silent prayer before it hits the wall. I say I’m sorry to everyone, my family for putting their lives in danger, to Aurora for letting her believe I was someone I’m not, to my mother, for I don’t know what, but I feel I owe her an apology too. To everyone I’ve deceived with this whole charade. Please, everyone, forgive me. I’ve learned my lesson. A little late, admittedly, but I learned it.

  I exhale, and feel much better.

  And realize that I have about three nanoseconds to jump.

  I leap from the cab of the lift, watching in slow motion as it smashes into the wall of PPMM, spectacularly, but crumpling like a sheet of tin foil. Crap. Larson was right. Even a lift at forty miles an hour can’t pierce this stuff.

  Wait. A little flash.

  It did pierce the wall. Just enough.

  And then an explosion, like a bolt of lightning, rips through the sky above me. The entire dome flashes white hot, blinding me.

  Darkness.

  Then another sound: the rush of air into the space, and… something like a million crystals falling from the heavens.

  No, wait. It is a million crystals falling from the heavens! Little chunks of PPMM are about to kill me! I have just enough time to curl up into a ball, protecting my head, when I’m pelted with the equivalent of a full hailstorm in a matter of seconds. I picture the infinite small bruises I’ll have tomorrow morning over my entire body.

  But I’ll be alive tomorrow morning. Damn that feels good.

  I breathe the air in deep, feeling the rush of a new life, and kiss the red dust on the ground. I hear footsteps, and Claire asks, “Is she alive?”

  I turn over and grin at them all. “I’m alive.” Then I remember the moments before all this, when the world learned who I really was, and the Gitanos’ collective jaws dropped to the floor, and they cocked their handguns, and I frown. “For the moment.”

  Benji reaches out his hand. “Let’s go help the others.”

  “I’m sorry, Benji. All of you. I hope you can forgive me.”

  Benji nods. “I can’t speak for everyone, but we’re not dead. You did that. That counts for something.”

  Mike shakes his head. “No. Sorry, Robin. Or whatever your name is. It’s not enough.” He walks away, toward the other dome. Claire follows him, whispering, “A Filler? That’s so strange.”

  And Aurora follows them both, silent.

  After a little while alone, I walk to the other dome, little chunks of PPMM crunching underfoot. Zach Larson, behind the main dome’s wall, in full spacesuit, holds up his tablet: Do you know how much that dome cost?

  I honestly can’t tell if he’s trying to make light of the situation. He doesn’t smile, or wink, or nod, but his eyes are telling me something. If I had to put it into words, my guess is that they’re saying, “You lied to me. And we have a sabotage problem. But you kept a bunch of people from dying on my watch, and I won’t be going to jail for multiple counts of negligent homicide, so thanks for that.”

  Three transports finally arrive, and a backup-backup generator crew rushes off one of them. Within minutes, the main dome is powered back on, and its hostages are set free.

  Ted and his cameraman run over as Larson slips through the PPMM membrane and unlatches his helmet. “Mr. Larson! What happened?!”

  “That thing is on, correct?” He points to the camera’s little red light. Ted nods.

  “Good. This young woman has something to say.”

  “I do?”

  Ted fidgets. “Sir. People are watching. Like, a historic number of people. Shouldn’t you be-”

  “Give her a microphone.” He turns to me. “You have some explaining to do.”

  Ted hands me a mic.

  The world is watching.

  “I- I- I’m… sorry.” I try to hand the mic back to Larson. He pushes it in back in front of my face.

  I want to ask for forgiveness a thousand times. But suddenly, guilt isn’t what I feel most. Something else is rising in me. Some other feeling I’ve never had.

  “Yes. I am sorry. Sorry that I lied to get on this show. My name is not Robin Smith. Actually, technically it is Robin, but my Nana– well, that’s a completely different story.” My throat constricts. It doesn’t want the next words to come out. But I force them. “My name is Paper. Paper Farris.”

  I take a deep breath and look over at Aurora. “I needed to escape who I am to be here. But I am finished trying to escape, trying to become someone I am not.” Tears begin to stream down my cheeks. “Who am I? I am… a Filler. A third-generation Filler from Fill City One.” I take one step closer to the camera and stare straight into its eye. The strange feeling begins to burn in my chest like a fire, and now I know what it is: PRIDE.

  “Yes. I am Paper Farris. I am a Filler. And I am proud. Proud of myself. Proud of my family. Proud of my people, the people of the Fill Cities, hard-working, loyal, and generous people who provide the fuel for this country and eliminate its waste. These people, who you don’t know, who you may look down on, who don’t have a voice, these people… are my family.”

  Where did that come from?

  Alien words coming from my mouth. But they feel right. Like I’m telling the truth. Finally. In my mind, I reach through the camera into my family’s living room and hug all of them at once. Everyone in Fill City. In all the Fill Cities. My mother and Voomvoom. I hug them all.

  I look up, now back in my actual reality. It’s dark and silent. No one cheers. I can literally hear crickets off in the distance. Did anyone hear me?

  Larson gently takes back the microphone, beams into the camera. “Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen! What a night! Tune in tomorrow, as the three remaining teams begin competing in Stage Three: Back to School!”

  Ted cuts the camera, and Larson lowers his voice. “My office. Tomorrow morning.”

  He walks away, towards the third transport, and I can hear him say the words even though he doesn’t: Strike three.

  41

  Trust Me.

  “Well. You made quite a splash last night. Bravo on that speech.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Larson.”

  He pats me on the shoulder. “Zach.” Then moves to the window and looks out onto the studio lot. The morning light is pouring in, but it feels darker than last time. “You can stop saying you’re sorry. Thirty times in one conversation is enough. The person who should be sorry is the one who sabotaged the domes with that A.I. virus. The person who wants this mission to fail. That person will be very sorry.”

  “So I can stay?”

  “No. Now it’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry, Robin. Paper. You cannot stay. I honestly wish you could. Did you see the ratings last night? Oh dear Lord. It was another record. Shattered. You’re a star. And your Likes. I can hardly keep track.”

  “But it’s your show. Your rules. Just tell everyone I can stay.”

  “No. Listen, I couldn’t care less if you broke one of my rules. Any of my rules. You know that. I’m much more interested in finding out who threatened our lives. But you broke one of your own rules. You’re a citizen of Fill City One, Paper, and must abide by their laws. The Gitanos have already asked to retrieve you. They have a car waiting at the garage, in fact. The federal government has extradition agreements with the Fill Cities. I make my own rules, yes, but I don’t break federal laws. There’s nothing I can do.”

  A sudden desperation grips me. I look around for a secret exit. “Can’t you help me escape the
n? Go into hiding? Like my mother? Please?”

  “I’m going to ask you to trust me. No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I don’t think Meal-In-A-Bags and dodging toll monitors suits you.”

  “What?” I explode from my chair and grab his collar. “What are you talking about? What do you know? How could you possibly know that?”

  He considers me for a long moment, pushes me gently away, smooths his shirt, and taps the tips of his fingers together. “Yes. It’s time you knew. You’re not the only one with secrets.” Sits back down. From a drawer he pulls a Red Scarab, and places it on the desk between us. He presses the head.

  Nothing.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake.” He smacks the scarab on the desk twice and presses the head again, and the wing covers spring open. “Now… what do you see?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  He grins. “You’re on to me. Yes. The real question is what don’t you see?” He gently lifts the left wing cover, with increasing pressure, until it snaps off. Hands it to me. “Now what do you see?”

  A chip. There’s the teeniest little computer chip on the inside of the wing cover, barely visible. And an even teenier antenna. “You heard…”

  “Everything. Not just you. All the winners.”

  “That’s how you knew about Aurora, you had that record disc already made. You knew about my rockets. My mother. Fill City…”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you justify that?”

  “My rules, Paper. My conscience is clean. I needed to know about all of you. Everything I could.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? This is a mission to Mars, Paper. Not a television show. How can I know one of you isn’t something dangerous – like a saboteur?”

  “One of us?”

  He shrugs. “Whoever did this was extremely crafty. Not to worry. It won’t happen again. I’ve made the necessary security upgrades and we’re reviewing all the footage, though that will take quite some time.” He gets up again, as if he wants me to rise so I can leave.

  “So that’s it? We’re done here?”

  “You’re not listening. I asked you to trust me.”

  “If you let me out that door, I’ll be in the fill before you can order breakfast.”

  “I already had breakfast.”

  “Smart ass.”

  “Paper. Listen to me. Do you think I did this show for the money? I could fund this mission a few times over. No. I did this to get our great country excited about exploration again. To give them something to believe in. And someone to believe in. An underdog. Someone who came from nothing, who shares their dreams, and fears, and guilt, and hope. And I think they’ve found her.”

  “He said as he let her be taken away by mobsters. Nice speech, Zach.”

  He sighs. Reaches under his desk and lifts out my satchel. Hands it to me. Then hands me a small, thin rectangle.

  “My Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card. Great. My mother’s insane, you know.”

  “I actually like her. From what I’ve heard anyway. Reminds me of-”

  “Martha.”

  He smiles at me now, looking like Dad, that smile that knows I’m going to be okay, that the road might be bumpy, but at the end of the day, I’ll curl up with my blanket in a warm, dry space somewhere, and wherever I am, for that moment, I can call it home, because he’ll always be there with me.

  “That’s my Dad’s smile. It’s annoying.”

  He laughs. “Sorry. Now, I can’t see what’s on here.” He points to the card. “It’s DNA coded. When I tried to read it, it notified me I’d need Gitano family DNA to gain access. That’s very complicated stuff, DNA coding. There are only a handful of people who could swing this. Insane or not, it seems your mother has some talented friends.”

  “Wonderful. She can bring them to my unmarked grave.”

  Larson stands, comes around to my side of the desk, and kneels. “I am letting you go. Only because I know this isn’t goodbye.”

  I don’t know what comes over me, I reach around his shoulders, and sob silently into his neck. “I’m afraid.”

  “Life is scary. I know. I’ll tell you all about it someday. But do you really think I would let you die?”

  42

  FILL R UP

  Well, this isn’t what I expected.

  I don’t know why I expected a normal, official looking transport, like a police or security vehicle, waiting for me on the top of Groupie Studios’ private garage. I should have known better. The Gitanos, as I’ve said, could never shake the “mobster” mystique, so instead of something normal and official, they’ve sent me a glossy black stretch limousine with a custom license plate that reads “FILL R UP.” Of course.

  I’ve seen this before.

  Rock came running into my chemistry class – fifth grade? – totally disregarding the teacher’s admonishments. “Paper! Paper! Look! Out the window!”

  The entire class rushed to see, and we peered down on that rarest of rare birds:

  A Gitano.

  Sighting a Gitano in the wild was so rare, in fact, that the teachers stopped yelling and got worried looks on their faces.

  The limousine, black and long, opened its window just a crack, a wisp of smoke escaping. The principal shuffled over to it and leaned in hesitantly, then nodded so many times I thought his neck was broken. Then the car’s door creaked open, and a leg stepped out. An entire black suit emerged. We gasped.

  It’s funny that we gasped, because the person stepping out of the limousine could’ve been anyone. There was nothing unique or special about him, other than the limousine and the suit, and that he was clean. Not particularly tall or short. Or thin or fat. Or hairy or bald, or handsome or ugly. But there was one thing: his presence.

  The man walked with such a confident and menacing presence, people involuntarily behaved like magnets of the same pole, repelled a few steps back as he passed them. He disappeared under the entrance awning, smiling, and we waited for what seemed like a year, without a single sound – hushed for probably the first time in our student careers – until finally the man emerged again, this time with a companion.

  Mister Ellington. One of the history teachers.

  “Where’s Mister Ellington going, Mrs. Weiner?”

  We couldn’t take our eyes off the Gitano, so we couldn’t see the stricken look on her face. We only heard a little whimper.

  “Maybe he’s getting a promotion, Mrs. Weiner?”

  “Y- y- yes. That might be it.”

  And we never saw Mr. Ellington again.

  I return to the present just as a skinny young man in a black suit steps into the sun, shielding his eyes. It’s funny: cars haven’t needed drivers in over fifty years, but my mother insists on driving herself, and the Gitanos insist on having someone sit in the front seat, even though all they do is tap a few buttons. It’s just for the show, the insecure display of power. We live in a strange world. Whatever.

  The man walks to the back and taps a little button.

  A double-door opens and a cloud of cigar smoke billows out.

  A voice from inside: “Get in.”

  I can’t see in, it’s so dark. I imagine Satan himself is inviting me into his mobile version of Hell.

  There’s no point in any other course of action, if I run I’m positive I’ll wind up with a bullet in my back, so I surrender to my fate. I climb in, immediately assaulted by the smell of bad cologne, bourbon, and cigar smoke. Black leather is everywhere. A finger points to the seat next to the TV, I suppose so the limousine’s sole passenger can watch You’re Going to Mars! and his prey at the same time.

  There’s a gun on the seat opposite me, next to a very large man. It’s nine o’clock in the morning and he’s drinking bourbon and smoking cigars. And though it’s ice cold in here, a thin sheet of sweat slicks his bald head. He breathes heavily between puffs and drinks. Basically, the picture of perfect health.

  “Close the door, Angel. You’r
e letting all the goddamn heat in.”

  Angel’s been looking at me, distracted. He hurriedly slams the doors and rushes back to his seat. The privacy screen slides up. The car starts moving, descending the ramps, out past the paparazzi and the fans, into the real world beyond.

  I’m shaking with fear, but this scene, I’ve watched it so many times, I involuntarily laugh. “Could this be any more like GoodFellas?”

  “What?”

  “The movie. One of the oldies.”

  “Oh, yeah. The one where everybody gets whacked.”

  “That one.”

  “Yeah. I could shove an ice pick into the back of your neck. Would that make it even more like GoodFellas for you?” Leo puts his fist to the back of his own neck to demonstrate.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead even though it’s zero degrees in here. “I withdraw the question.”

  “Good. Now, little Farris. You were great on that show, like the thing with that Claire, pushing her ass up the rock wall, jeez I almost laughed my balls off, but… there’s nothing we we need from you, there’s nothing you can offer us in exchange for your life, so I’m sorry kid, but it’s into the fill for y-”

  Angel taps on the glass. Lowers the privacy screen. “Leo. Um, sir.”

  “What? I was just doin’ my pre-execution speech!”

  “I’m sorry sir. But you should turn on the TV.”

  “Now? Angel, you’re killin’ me over here.” Leo bends over – I swear almost having a heart attack with the strain – and turns on the TV next to me. I don’t dare bend forward to look back and see the screen, as I have an allergy to ice picks and guns. But I can hear a voice.

  It’s Larson.

  “…and they have taken one of our own, a fellow contestant, for no other reason than a sixty-five-year-old contract dictates she can never leave her place of birth. Yes, the person we knew as Robin was someone else: Paper Farris. She did not tell the truth. But… wouldn’t you do the same? To exercise your basic human rights? To follow your dream? For a chance to live… free?”