by Rob Dircks
I look down at the numbers. It’s a readout of something, chemicals I guess, too much math to make much sense. “I don’t know. It looks like it could be a geological survey.”
She smacks her knee. “Bingo! You are the smart one!” She points to one of the lines. “And what’s missing?”
“It was a guess. I’m not a geologist.”
“Look at the second report, down there. Now back up to the first one. What’s missing?”
“The bottom one has a line that says ‘anomalies: none’. The top one doesn’t have that line.”
She grins. “All reports have that line. Or at least they’re all supposed to. This one doesn’t.”
“So?”
“So someone deleted the line. This is a NASA geological survey, Pepper. And someone there is deleting evidence of some kind of anomaly. On a government survey. This stinks. Stinks of WasteWay. They’re hiding something that’s up there. They don’t want us to know. Why do you think there’s never been a manned mission?”
Poor Jane. It’s a simple error. A printout glitch. She’s chasing an innocent rabbit down a bottomless hole.
“I had given up, Pepper, honestly. Ask Voomvoom here. I thought that trip to Mars was my last long shot at finding the truth, and I raced up and down the coast buying those damned scarabs, but I never found a winner.” She peers up to the stars. “And then I got the message from Harlon. A miracle.” She turns to me, and all the insanity in her eyes seems to disappear for a moment, and she puts her hands on my face and pulls it close to hers, and whispers, “I found the winner. You. You said you feel like you were meant to be out there. You are. And you said the folks back home are waiting for something. They are. It’s all connected. You, me, them. I’m so terribly sorry I wasn’t there for you, love. But we both have a job to do now.”
“It’s a piece of paper, Jane. Twenty-one years and one piece of paper. Come on. Please. I’m just trying to win a trip to Mars. Bradline thinks I’m leading the Fillers to some unseen destiny for crying out loud, and now you? With this?”
She sighs. “Sometimes life asks more of us than we planned on giving.” Then she hugs me, like I imagine a real mother might do when her daughter doesn’t believe her. “Forget I said that. You know what? It’s all right. Believe in yourself, Pepper. Go have your adventure. Enjoy every second. Don’t give my crazy theory any mind. But… if anything does happen, and you need me, I’ll be right here.” She reaches once more into her pocket, lifts out a small, thin rectangle, pulls open my satchel and tucks it deep inside.
“A stick of gum?”
“It’s your Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free Card. It just looks innocent, like a stick of gum. I made it myself.”
“Of course you did. But I have no idea what you mean.”
“Just hold on to it and don’t show anyone. You’ll know if you ever need it.”
By this time we’re at the fringes of the crowd, pushing our way to the front. Only six minutes remain on the giant clock. Closer to the gate, revelers are drinking and singing, awaiting the final countdown and the launch of the show they’ve been waiting months for. A scalper notices our little threesome, maybe it was just that we were the only ones without red plastic cups in our hands, sloshing beer everywhere. “Hey, kid. Got something you want to sell?” He flashes me a card with two million credits displayed on its face. Two million. It would buy my mother all the help she needs, and Voomvoom a normal life, many times over. I look back to her. She shakes her head and pushes me forward, her expression saying this is not for anyone else. This is yours.
I turn back to the scalper. “I’ve got something. But not to sell.”
The crowd stops their party like a freeze dance. Someone turns off the radio. All faces turn to me as I push to the iron bars of the studio gate. I slide my hand through, shaking, holding the red scarab out to the production manager on the other side. His name tag says “Ted.” He bows, dramatically. “Please press the head.”
I do, and the wing covers spring open one last time, and the wings unfurl, and Zach Larson speaks.
And the crowd does nothing.
They know, as I do from watching the feed, that counterfeiters have tried to fool the producers on at least a dozen occasions. Instead, they watch in silent, rapt attention as Ted drops my scarab into a mysterious looking box.
The next few seconds are endless.
Then a green light on the top of the box lights up.
“It’s a winner!”
This time the crowd erupts in cheers, raising me up on their shoulders, singing the drunken anthem they’d made up and sung for each winner over the weeks:
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!
I find myself singing with them, carried along not only on their shoulders but their joy at the ridiculous-yet-somehow-inspiring event unfolding before us all. I can’t wait to get through the gate.
I feel a tug at my t-shirt, and look down.
Voomvoom.
The throng puts me down, and I kneel down in front of him. “You take care of Jane. She needs you.”
“I know. I will.” And he hugs me, tighter than his little seven-year-old frame should be able to, and his body shudders. He’s crying. I pull his face to mine, and kiss him on the cheek.
“I’ll be back soon.” Now I’m crying. “And then we’ll go home.”
I don’t know why I said that. There is really no way he would ever be coming back with me to Fill City One, and if his home is the Honda, which I don’t doubt, well, he isn’t going back to that home either. But I meant what I said, and… it feels right. It feels like I’m telling the truth. I believe it.
His eyes light up at the thought, and he grins wide and skips back to his mother, beaming, repeating “voom voom!” Jane gives me a look that says thanks for getting the kid’s hopes up, but then she puckers up her lips and blows me a kiss.
It’s strange, I feel like I’ve been with this woman forever, this woman who calls herself my mother, that somehow the intervening years between the moment she fled and this moment have been filled with… something. Not just emptiness. I feel like simultaneously running into her arms and running away from her as fast as I can. But I just catch her kiss in my hand and put it in my pocket. I’ll save it for later.
As I turn back to Ted, I’m beaming. One more chapter over. A new one beginning. I’m ready. Excited as hell.
“Before we let you in. Name.”
“Paper.” My hand shoots over my mouth.
“I don’t need any papers. Just your name.”
“Robin. Smith. Robin Smith. Robin Smith.”
“Welcome, Robin Smith Robin Smith Robin Smith. DNA please.”
I offer my hand, realizing it’s wrapped in a bloody t-shirt sleeve, and offer the other instead. He pulls my index finger and scrapes it with a small gadget. “DNA… check. You are, in fact, Robin Smith.”
The gates open, just enough for me to slip through, and close again, and the crowd continues to cheer from the other side as I receive my spacesuit. I turn and wave, and their cheering grows even louder, and I think: Wow. They really like me!
But the cheering is strangely loud. A little too loud.
To test a theory that’s forming in my brain, I stop waving. And the cheering grows to a frenzy.
No. They aren’t cheering for me. They’re cheering for something else.
A white limousine stops right near the gate.
I can’t see through the horde of people, and scalpers are surrounding the car, but it becomes clear someone is approaching the gate. With a dramatic five seconds left on the clock.
“Five!”
The person shows the scarab.
“Four!”
The box lights up green.
“Three!”
I can’t even hear the person say their name from all the screaming and clapping.
“Two!”
DNA test.
“One!”
And the gate opens at the buzzer, declaring the end of the sweepstakes, to a crowd gone absolutely wild, all of them rushing towards me, and I get my first look at the twenty-sixth and final contestant on You’re Going to Mars!
Aurora.
Wonderful.
Last year’s runner-up on America Sings! – the impossibly-perfect, ultra-competitive, twenty-something brat-diva from Las Vegas, writer of the annoying mega-hit “Baby’s Gone,” and latest singer-with-one-name – is walking towards me. Or rather, stumbling. She’s piss drunk, swaying on her feet, reaching for anything to support her. The crowd lurches toward us, right behind her, a line of security guards barely keeping them at bay, and camera flashes blind us both, and I can already read tomorrow’s headline: “Aurora Is Going To Mars And Some Random Contestant Looks On In Disgust.”
They hand her a spacesuit, and for a moment she looks at it as if it might be something useful to vomit in, but then she holds it up to the adoring masses. A spontaneous, drunken chorus of “Baby’s Gone” begins. She loses her balance with that little maneuver, and I have to prop her up.
“Thanks.”
Instead of saying you’re welcome, I grunt.
From a side door, the producers lead out the other twenty-four winners, in a fairly-well choreographed photo op, to the military-esque-adventure-movie-soundtrack theme song and more cheers, and a total camera blitz. I actually recognize some of their faces, from the feed, and there are at least five or six celebrities in the bunch, looking more or less glamorous, even in their spacesuits.
I keep an eye on Aurora. Every time she sways, I poke her back to balance. She’s pathetic, but it would be embarrassing for her to fall over drunk in front of a billion people on television.
Then she does.
And as she goes down, she grabs my t-shirt, and I go down with her, right on top of her in fact, to the roars of laughter and cheers and jeers from nearly every person under thirty-five on the planet.
She whispers, “Shit. Sorry.”
“Get up. And if you throw up on me, I don’t care if the entire galaxy is watching, I will hurt you.”
The producers rush over, trying to make it look like this was all planned and perfectly normal, and a spotlight shines on the studio door, and Zach Larson himself marches out. Our generation’s visionary and master showman, in his very own custom spacesuit, looks down at us trying to help the inebriated celebrity singer get to her feet, and a mischievous grin spreads across his face. Then he shouts into his microphone the words that will be the understatement of the millennium:
“Let the show begin!”
19
Martha
I expect Larson to show us to the luxury accommodations we’ve all seen on the commercials, and introduce us to our Team Leaders – the show will mimic a high-tech astronaut training program – but Ted and the other production managers instead herd the crowd out, shut the gate, and lead us through a maze of studio alleys to… a tarmac?
The camera crew is boarding an airplane, or something airplane-ish, right there in the middle of a TV lot. It’s a large lot, the kind you could shoot huge action sequences in, but certainly not one long enough to use as a runway. Then again, this isn’t an ordinary airplane. It looks like one giant wing, with a circular central area for the crew, and four massive engines, like nothing I’ve ever seen, some mix of jet and rocket engines, hanging from the wings in the rear, each now rotating back and forth independently, in what looks like a testing pattern.
Wow. AceSpace really pulled out all the stops. A giant, battleship-gray military aircraft, with You’re Going to Mars! splashed in purple across the front. I wonder if they’ll offer us champagne on board. I’ve never tasted champagne.
Our group of twenty-six marches down the carpet, yes, the classic red carpet from every celebrity runway ever, led by Zach Larson, cameras rolling, all of us in awe. A woman, pudgy to the point of stretching the fabric of her spacesuit, scratches her head. “Wait. Are we going to Mars first?”
The rest of us laugh, and the contestant next to her puts his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t strain yourself, Claire. No, it’s an X-93. Vertical takeoff. Prototype, first one I’ve ever seen. They’re probably taking us out to the desert to see the Mars launch pad.”
It’s amazing how quickly perceptions are molded. From that first moment, I brand the woman, Claire, out-to-lunch, and the man next to her know-it-all. And looking around, I know it’s wrong, but it’s hard not to judge each of these books immediately by their covers: athlete, stuck-up celebrity, actually normal, potential serial killer, friendly, cowboy swagger, that actor from Home Time, housewife, et cetera. And of course, brat-diva – my hopefully very temporary companion Aurora, America Sings! runner-up, and now that I’ve met her, also fall-over-drunk.
I wonder what the others have branded me.
Larson walks over to know-it-all and shakes his hand. “Very good guess, Albert! But the X-93 is a government plane. Therefore it won’t exist for another decade or two – if ever. This,” he runs up to the craft and bows proudly next to the staircase, “is a little something AceSpace cooked up. As they say, if you want something done…”
And I can’t help molding my instant impression of Zach Larson either: I like him. I thought that I’d have the opposite reaction on meeting this larger-than-life icon and media titan, that his disdain for rules, annoying quirks, way-too-self-assured attitude, and oh-so-over-the-top wealth would scrape like nails on a chalkboard. But there is something about him, the twinkle in his eye, of a young man, a boy really, in the body of a sixty-year-old.
Larson greets each of the contestants as they step onto the stairs, and Marina Delacosta, celebrity for no other reason than her father owns half of Italy and who, by the way, probably paid two million credits for her scarab, gives him a kiss on each cheek. “You arra coming Zach, yes?”
“No, my dear. I don’t even know if this beast can fly.”
Marina gulps, and Larson kisses her cheeks in return. “Have no fear, I’ve been on her several times, Marina. She’s a dream. Like a mouthful of cotton candy. You’re in for a treat. Your team leaders and I will be here when you get back.” He grins. “If you get back.”
Marina laughs nervously and climbs aboard.
As I push Aurora toward the stairs, she and I being last, Larson stops us. “Well, well. I see you two are fast friends.”
I roll my eyes before I can stop myself, then blush. A plastic disc appears from somewhere in Larson’s suit. “It’s called a forty-five music record. My mother worked at a museum and used to sneak me in to play them all the time. I make my own now. This one’s ‘Baby’s Gone.’ Aurora dear, would you sign my copy?” He holds out the disc and a marker, and I literally have to guide Aurora’s hand to the small center area of the disc and help her scribble her autograph. He just happens to have a copy of “Baby’s Gone” in his pocket? I add enigma to my mental description of Zach Larson.
Aurora stumbles up the stairs, and as I follow, Larson stops me. “Thank you, ah…”
“Robin.”
“Yes, Robin. Of course. Sometimes it takes a while for a name to stick.” He looks down at my hand. “What happened here?”
“I fell. I’m an idiot.”
“Let me have a look.” And he takes my hand, gently unwrapping Voomvoom’s makeshift bandage. “Nasty scrape. Let’s see if I’ve got something here…” He reaches into several more pockets of his magic suit, and sure enough, pulls out what looks like a wizard’s wand. “It’s not what you think. You may have seen this on Emergency Medic Alert, but I’ve had my team miniaturize a MedBay wand into something pocket size.” He slowly passes the wand over my hand, and I feel a strange tingle, some mix of burning and cooling, then warmth, like a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows. I’ve actually never had a
cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows, but from the reactions of the people in the commercials, I imagine this is what they’re feeling. It’s nice.
He takes out a little towelette, from yet another pocket, and wipes my palm clean. “See? Good as new.” It’s like a miracle. I’ve seen it on TV, of course, but the Fill Cities don’t have medical tech like this, so it never seemed real. It’s a shame. Miracles like this could do a lot of people a lot of good in the Fill Cities.
Larson leans in and whispers. “Now, tell me Robin, do you like rockets?”
What a strange question. If he knew me, he’d know I’m obsessed with rockets, and space travel. But he couldn’t possibly have known. Yes, he’s definitely an enigma. “Good guess, Mr. Larson. As a matter of fact I do.”
“Zach. Please. From now on call me Zach. Well then, Robin, if you like rockets, you’re going to love Martha.”
“Martha?”
He pats the underside of the airplane-like thing. “I named her after my late mother. She’s fast and feisty, just like Mom.” Then he motions for my satchel. “May I take that for you? I can put it in your room. There’s an area for small effects that’s private and off-camera. You won’t be needing it for the flight.”
I clutch it to my body, probably a little too fast. “I… is it okay if I keep it with me?”
“Certainly. Just make sure it’s secured. You might, ah, hit a wee little turbulence up there. Now, off you go.”
“Mr. Larso- Zach… where are we going?”
He just smiles and walks back toward the studio, and I can hear him chuckle to himself. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
So I climb the stairs and board the plane-ish thing, close to the rear, and look around.
We are not getting champagne.
These are the barest-bones accommodations possible, with a positively military vibe. One big, gray, circular open area with a bench around the entire perimeter, rows of lights and buttons and rails along the ceiling, a door to the cockpit up front, and a couple of doors at the back. That’s it. It’s very unlike what I’ve seen so far, the schmaltzy signs and lights, the sets on the commercials, the red carpet. I wonder if this is on purpose, or if someone in charge of budgets finally put their foot down and said enough, Mr. Larson.