The Gate

by Jennifer N Hibbert

  Simon took his turn to address the rapt audience. ‘You’re not allowed to carry anything to space; clothes will be provided for you both here and on Mars. They will be allocated to you periodically, or as required. I’ll use this opportunity to thank you all for agreeing to part with your mobile phones – that is necessary for the advancement of this programme. No money is permitted, as new currency will be issued upon your arrival in your new city. You are not to bring food of any kind – cooked, uncooked – nothing. You are leaving your friends and families.’

  The mere mention of friends and family caused a few of the migrants to become tearful; others started to sob uncontrollably. Simon stopped speaking for a few moments to allow them to collect themselves. Some held hands and hugged, understanding a shared grief despite being strangers.

  ‘We promise to make your stay here as enjoyable as possible. Thank you all for listening,’ Simon said in conclusion.

  Rogers stood up and made another introduction. ‘Everyone, here is Sunita,’ he said, nodding towards her.

  The fourth member of the leadership team sprang to her feet, stood in front of the audience and began speaking. She was thirty-five years old, and five feet four. She had thick strands of shoulder-length black hair. ‘I will be dealing with any issues related to community living. We will have regular classes on this subject. In the meantime, if anyone has any questions, please see me after this meeting,’ she said briefly and returned to her seat.

  ‘Right, now you will be divided into groups for a tour of the facility where you will be spending the next six months,’ Rogers said.

  He and his colleagues divided the migrants into groups. Rogers had about fifty people, plus his two assistants. ‘Hi, everyone. These two young men, Zebe and Joe, will be assisting me,’ he said, pointing at them. They said nothing but they smiled slightly.

  Zebe and Joe were now in their thirties: their hair styles had changed, plus they looked more mature.

  Rogers soon spotted the four chatty young men and the girl who was with them in his group. Martin saw him but looked away quickly.

  Rogers led his group out of the meeting hall, the large open space used as a multi-purpose facility that had enough space to contain everyone in the camp, including the workers. This hall was where all the group talks and events that required everyone to attend took place. He took his group to a newly-constructed indoor sports facility with a swimming pool about 150 metres away. The group members fell silent and followed him but soon Rogers heard some whispering.

  ‘I bet you this tour guide, Mr Rogers, has eyes in the back of his head,’ someone said.

  Hearing his name, Rogers side-stepped so he could see them from the corner of his eyes; it was Morgan and Martin speaking. The other two boys joined in.

  ‘Come on, man, quit playing and stop being spooky,’ Martin said.

  ‘Not literally, dumb-dumb!’ Koi snapped.

  ‘Stop it! I’m not dumb, I know what he meant, I was just poking fun,’ Martin said, looking a bit angry.

  ‘No, you weren’t,’ insisted Koi.

  ‘I was,’ Martin argued.

  ‘That’s enough! Stop quarrelling both of you! It doesn’t really matter,’ Chris said.

  They were quiet for a second.

  ‘Gosh, Koi can sometimes get on my nerves. He can be a bit of a smart ass,’ Martin whispered to Morgan. He was still loud enough for Koi and the rest of his group to hear.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Koi.

  Morgan started speaking quietly and the rest leaned in to listen. Rogers turned slightly without letting them know he could hear them. ‘Never mind that! Our nerves will really be rocked by this guy, Rogers. Don’t you think? Welcome to our worst nightmare, Mr Rogers!’

  The boys looked at each other before bursting into loud laughter. They threw their hands on each other’s shoulders to support themselves as they continued to giggle. The other two boys and the girl joined in. The laughter soon resulted in a funny handshake, which ended with them clicking the tips of their fingers together in a set routine.

  Rogers’ voice called out and the laughter ceased.

  ‘Everyone, please pay attention. I will only show you these places once, and then you are expected to find your own way around. Information can be found in the handbook but it’s better to see it first-hand.’

  Morgan nudged Martin and tapped the other boys on their shoulders. ‘See, I told you. This guy seems to have an antenna. He can probably sense every move we make.’ They started giggling again.

  Rogers turned around abruptly and fixed his eyes on them. Their laughter quickly ceased and they started looking in other directions. The young woman with them took a few steps to distance herself. All of the other members of the tour group, the remaining forty-seven people or so, were quiet, watching Rogers.

  These are a bunch of stubborn guys, Rogers thought. They’d succeeded in gaining his attention in a very short space of time. He decided not to draw attention to them and let his gaze scroll blankly past them as though he hadn’t heard them laughing. He understood the extent of this adventure and did not want to scare them away. He’d trained his colleagues to be as understanding as possible towards the migrants because some of them might act up occasionally due to fear.

  ‘You are required to keep fit and exercise at least once every day. It’s important for everyone to maintain good health for the journey ahead.’ He pointed through the window. ‘Out there is a lot of space that can be used for sporting activities and outdoor learning. Over there, along the canal, is our obstacle course. We will come to that later,’ he said.

  The group came out of the gym; opposite it was another building. ‘This building is used for offices and admin. Should you have any issues, the staff here can resolve them. If you ever need to speak to me or any of the staff, our offices are all here with our names on the door.’ He pointed at the long, one-storey building. ‘My office is downstairs,’ he said with a slight smile.

  Rogers started walking with the group towards a large building. ‘Right,’ he said, breaking into a smile. ‘This is your accommodation here in the camp.’

  The three-storey building looked brand new. In front of the structure, the walkway was lined with flowers, most of which bloomed with different colours and scents, attracting butterflies and moths to their nectar. Rogers watched one of the butterflies as it landed on a flower; it reminded him of how this site had looked before it was developed for the programme. Once this was a forest teeming with wildlife; after it was cleared, it had looked barren. But now! Look how beautiful it had turned out; to see it buzzing with life brought joy to Rogers’ heart.

  He looked on admiringly and almost forgot what he was doing. He quickly turned his attention to a metal board on the well-manicured lawn with a sign that matched the one on the roof that read ‘Stallion House’. Across the lawn, about fifty metres away, was an identical building: ‘Outreach House’ was written above it. Everything looked the same except for their names.

  Rogers pointed to the second building, and said: ‘Many of these houses are dotted around the camp, each with a different name tag. Everyone in this group belongs to Stallion House, unless the house allocation paper in your guide pack says otherwise.’

  A few of the migrants took out their guide pack and started to look through it. Rogers was silent, waiting and watching them. Suddenly he heard Martin’s voice. ‘Where does it say which house, we’re in?’ he asked.

  Koi snatched the pack from his hand and glanced at a few of the pages before pulling out a piece of paper. ‘There!’ he said. ‘Stallion House, room 233, second floor.’

  Martin said nothing; he just stepped back a little.

  They walked through an automatic door to a reception area. Some of the migrants went straight to the couches and chairs, which faced television sets that were tuned to the news station, and sat down.

  ‘In front of us is our in-house bar; it is open from 5pm till 12 midnight. All the drinks are free. The bar attendants
reserve the right to refuse to serve any adult they deem drunk. Minors are not allowed alcohol at any time in this camp.’

  Rogers pointed towards a large fridge, beside which was another medium-size fridge; they had the same functions as vending machines. ‘For those of you who do not drink alcohol, happy days. You will be glad to know that all the drinks are free, all day long from anywhere in the camp.’ The smaller fridge contained soft drinks in cans – soda, lemonade, water and Coke.

  ‘However, I’m sorry to disappoint the alcohol drinkers. These drinks are not entirely free,’ Rogers said, pointing at the bigger fridge, which was stacked full of cold alcoholic drinks. ‘You are allowed one drink from it a day. I’m afraid you have to pay for this one.’

  A few people gasped in confusion and started murmuring among themselves.

  ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, how are we going to pay for anything without money?’ Chris asked, staring steadily at Rogers.

  ‘That, my friends, is where tokens come in. When you get to your room, you will find what we call a “token a day”. The tokens are green, plastic, round-shaped coins. They are for alcohol only, and can only be used in these machines,’ Rogers explained. ‘The first reason is to control the alcoholic intake, as we do not tolerate drunkenness at the camp. But, of course, you can have certain alcoholic beverages, such as beer and wine in limited amounts with your meals. Secondly, it’s for those of you who don’t want to wait from lunch time to 5pm to have your next alcoholic drink. You could use your token to whet your appetite before the real drinking starts.’

  They all chuckled a little.

  ‘Another important reason for the tokens is to encourage friendship. You can share a drink with a friend, perhaps at a picnic or whatever the reason,’ Rogers explained.

  Two bartenders dressed in trousers and white short-sleeved shirts were working behind the bar.

  ‘I hope you’ll enjoy it here,’ said Rogers. ‘But I’m sorry, you can’t stay now. We still have lots of ground to cover – but not to worry. You’ll have plenty of time to rest after lunch.’

  The migrants followed him. Just as he went through the door, he turned. ‘I forgot to mention an important fact.’ The confused crowd parted in the middle and Rogers walked back to the middle of the room. He pointed at a clipboard covered with glass; on the top of it was written in bold letters: ‘Information and timetable’.

  ‘This board tells you what activities you have on any given day and their times. You’ll also find one of these boards in the canteen with the same information. If all else fails, you can get the information from your camp handbook. Rest assured that if anything changes, we will post a new notice through your door in good time to allow for the adjustment.’

  Rogers and his group walked one hundred metres or so away from their living quarters. ‘Now, this is where it all gets interesting. Here is our space simulation room,’ he said, pointing at a building with glass walls. Inside, they could see some strange-looking machines. ‘This building is designed to discharge the kinds of weather conditions you can expect to encounter on Mars.’

  The migrants looked excited and eager to go in. Rogers came to a stop and turned towards them. ‘We will not be going inside the hall now but don't worry, we will be having regular classes here. By the end of this camp programme, every one of you will have had enough practice. However, even if you are able to respond correctly to this replica, you must not underestimate the real thing. Your new environment on Mars is full of surprises, so you must tread cautiously.’

  Rogers then took them to a purpose-built street, which stretched for miles. Part of the long road formed a low bridge over a canal. It was only about nine meters and eighteen cm from the simulator building. There were railings on both sides of the street and giant fishing nets hooked on poles.

  ‘This street is designed to capture the essence of the streets in your new city. Its functionality can only be demonstrated; we will have plenty of time to learn about it.’ The people walked along the street admiring the rails, the nets and the loudspeakers impaled on tall metal poles, standing over two hundred metres apart. Different-sized metal poles held what looked like new-age shower heads, pitched perhaps six to nine metres apart. Along the street were bungalow-style houses with double doors; they were called safe houses and were two hundred metres apart on each side of the road. There was a safe house every one hundred metres.

  In the middle of the road were some forty meters by two meters and forty-four cm tram boxes with their doors welded shut. Each of them connected to overhead cables like real trams, except they were not meant to function. They were parked on the tracks, two hundred metres apart.

  ‘Come on,’ Rogers said, and started walking off in another direction. They followed him and walked for another one hundred and fifty metres away from Stallion House. Rogers stopped near the front of a large building, facing the crowd. ‘I’m guessing, with this delicious smell of food and coffee wafting towards us, that you can guess where we’re headed. And you’re right! This is our state-of-the-art kitchen. There are four of these dotted around the camp.’

  Everyone followed Rogers into the massive canteen, which featured a well-equipped kitchen with a massive metal extractor hood above the ovens. It had an industrial feel, with all kinds of gadgets. A counter created a window between the kitchen and the eating area; long tables, with benches on both sides, occupied the middle of the room. The tables were set in rows to create an efficient functional flow. At the front were four metal tables that were being covered with prepared food and beverages ready for a buffet lunch. At the end of one of the tables were baskets of freshly baked crusty loaves, French sticks and soft white breads. Their seductive aroma filled the room. Next to them were bowls of pickled food, including eggs and cucumbers. Half of one of the tables was covered with different kinds of cheese.

  Rogers looked at chefs across the counter preparing food. They all wore white hats and aprons fastened around their waists. He smiled at them and a tall, fat chef nodded and waved back, but the rest carried on.

  Rogers could see that the group was impressed by the arrangement. Maybe the delicious smell of the food helped. Some people were standing around him, salivating profusely; others smacked their lips or swept their tongues across them to control their saliva. Watching them made Rogers salivate, too. A middle-aged man standing beside Rogers slammed his hands hard on his stomach in an attempt to silence an embarrassing rumble.

  Rogers turned and said: ‘You are free to eat in whichever one of these canteens you prefer at any given time. If you like, you can eat at a different one for each meal, in case you feel like you are missing something.’ Several people giggled. ‘But for now, please restrain your appetites. You will return to the food hall after the tour.’

  After walking past the entrance, Martin suddenly spun round. Rogers saw him and wondered what he was doing.

  ‘Wow, what’s this?’ Martin asked. He, the other three boys and the girl in their group were admiring a two meters and fourteen cm by three meters, six cm machine set in the corner, about three meters away from the entrance. Another one was situated at the opposite side of the hall close to the food tables. A few of the other migrants paused to admire it, too.

  Rogers walked back to the machine. ‘Ah, yes. This, my friends, is a plate dispenser: technology at its best. As you can see, there are no plates in sight anywhere in this hall. This machine offers you a warm plate. This smaller machine over here gives you a room-temperature plate for your dessert or ice cream,’ he said, with a hint of excitement in his voice. ‘It works like the vending machine, except it lowers the plate gently into this tray here on the left to avoid breakages. You key in what you want and there you go,’ he said, pointing to the tray.

  He had just turned away when he heard the noise of plates being continuously dispensed. Koi had keyed in plates on the dial and mistakenly pressed ‘fast’. The machine usually dispensed one plate and left an interval of a few seconds before the next one,
if you didn’t stop it.

  The tray collected a total of ten plates and soon they started flowing to the ground, followed by the sound of crashing ceramic. People stepped quickly out of the way to avoid being wounded by the shards of porcelain. The only people standing near Koi were his friends, except the girl, who had distanced herself from them.

  Koi tried to catch one of the cascading plates before it hit the floor. He wrestled with it, tossing it from hand to hand like a juggler. Just when he thought he’d finally caught it, it slipped through his fingers and came crashing down. When he looked up, he saw people from the group staring at him. ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted over the noise.

  Rogers strode quickly to the machine and switched it off. ‘But, of course, I forgot to mention, there is an off button,’ he said quietly, raising his eyebrows.

  A few of the younger people giggled, while the older people frowned and threw dirty looks at Koi, thinking he’d done it on purpose to entertain his friends.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Koi said slowly.

  Immediately two staff started heading towards the broken plates with brooms and dust pans.

  ‘Okay, let’s step outside before we break everything,’ Rogers said with a half-suppressed smile.

  Koi could tell Rogers was disappointed in him and his friends. The other three boys giggled, prodding and pushing each other. He squeezed in another quieter apology, perhaps to please the crowd, but they seemed not to take note and scowled at him.

  ‘What’s so funny, guys? You have to take these things seriously,’ the girl who was with the boys asked in a cold voice before walking away from them. Rogers wondered whether she did not approve of the boys’ behaviour or the way they talked. They were silent for a moment.

  ‘Guys! Did you see the big down look on Koi’s face? Being Mr Perfect and all, who never likes to do anything wrong,’ asked Martin.

  ‘So, you’re saying I deserved it?’ Koi asked.

  ‘No, not necessarily. Just get over it. At least, he didn’t say anything bad to you,’ Martin said casually, with a daft smile.