Beth and José cycle the airlock and enter the largest single enclosed space for humans on Mars. José’s mouth drops as he takes in the soaring translucent dome soaring over their heads. “¡Dios mio and holy shit! Where has this place been all this time?”
“Don’t get too excited, this is a temporary inflatable structure we hardly ever set up.” José is about to ask her a question, but she raises her hand. “Before you ask, it’s just plastic and doesn’t have the radiation shielding for permanent use. But it is the only place we have that’s big enough for all … this…” There are at least a hundred people milling around sipping beverages and talking and some sitting on bleachers overlooking a tennis-like sportsball setup.
“Wow, so the first Pickleball court on Mars? Where’s the bowling alley?”
“I think The Trek Deck might actually have a single bowling alley, but I also hear the balls were stolen and used for something called Mondo Croquet out on the surface. Wait, is… is that what I think it is?” Beth is staring, wide-eyed at the contents of the bowl on a table.
“Yes, yes it is.” Dressed in his finest dress uniform, Chief Engineer Preston Pence gestures towards the bowl of irregularly shaped orange objects. “Cheetos. Fresh from Earth. Everyone gets one.”
“One Cheeto?”
To underscore the concept, Preston holds up a single white-gloved finger with a smile. “One. Supplies are limited.”
Beth pauses, inhales and takes a moment to pass her gaze over the inflated dome. A small set of grandstands. Bright lights hung overhead. Scoreboard. Pallets of goods from the cargo ship. Pickleball court. She feels like the room is about to spin.
“One. Ok.” She regards the snacky contents of the bowl and magically it fills her entire vision. Which one to choose? Finally she awkwardly reaches in and chooses the one that just feels right. She holds it up to the light.
“It’s … it’s beautiful…”
“So it is. Enjoy.” José watches as she places it in her mouth, in the same way a gormand would place a slice of Jamón Ibérico de Belota with truffle foam. Then the slow, crunchy chew with the dreamy look. A pause.
“Oh, I want to burp.”
“Oh man, I never liked those things much.” Interjects José. “Please tell me they sent Chorizo. I am a chorizo-based life form.”
“Space travel is not possible without Chorizo!” Pence casts a guarded look around, leans closer and replies under his breath. “Not much, but some.” Pence leans in closer to whisper in José’s ear. “See me later. Mars owes you.”
He’s interrupted by the trilling of synthetic trumpets. Six figures in blue practical robes stride forward from the airlock, stopping before the Cheetos. One of them is nursing an infant.
Pence strides forward and bows. “Welcome to Marsfest, Grandmother. And welcome to your Consternation.”
The older lady bows briefly to Preston and tips her head to the side. “We prefer to refer to a group of Mothers as a Chorus. If you’ve heard ‘Consternation’ elsewhere it was meant to be satirical.” She pauses, eyes focused on the contents of the bowl on the table, one hand tentatively pecking forward “Are those organic?”
“I believe Cheetos…” he makes the double quotes sign with his fingers “tee-em are technically ‘organic material’ in that they are not rocks. The bag is there on the table in case you want to check the ingredients against a dictionary. Supplies are limited! One Cheeto per customer.” He smiles, looking satisfied.
“Well, perhaps one is not overdoing the junk food.” She picks one up and regards it carefully. “Tell us, this MarsFest. Do the prizes include support hose? Prenatal vitamins?”
Pence indicates the pallets of supplies ready for the winners. “I believe there are some nutritional supplements. You can check the inventory for specifics.”
“And the contest?”
“If you’re concerned about your on-court performance, do not worry. That’s mostly for fun. Everyone will leave with an allocation.” He strokes his chin. “We don’t want any hard feelings amongst our friends. Especially now that things are going to get better finally.”
She’s looking gravely into his eyes. “Indeed.” She gestures to her chorus of mothers. “Come, let us sit.” Quietly the group moves off.
“What I wouldn’t do for a smoke.” Lt. Grader, Space Marine, appears at Pence’s side. He’s dressed for Pickleball action in green-on-green Space Marine PT gear.
Pence turns to the buff Marine, “You know Grader, you know what it is that I like so much about Mars?” Chief Engineer Pence asks, arms crossed gazing at the red horizon out the plastic windows.
“Free parking?”
“Nothing on Mars is free. When I look out there, do you know what I do not see?”
“Mmmm… billboards? Homeless people? Mini-malls?”
“Bird poop. Do you remember the day when you realized that every outdoor surface on earth has been splattered with bird shit? Every tree in the park is soaked with dog pee?”
“Bird poop?”
“Mars is a place completely free of bird poop. Mars may be dusty, but it is clean. I call that a victory.”
“Hm. To victory then.” The two men toast each other and down a sip from their plastic mugs. The airlock cycles again and another robed group enters. They are carrying a legless robed man on a sedan chair. “Ah, I see the Steak Prophet has arrived.” Pence bows again as the group approaches.
“Welcome to Marsfest, Steak Prophet.”
First Speaker of The Temple of the Last Steak raises his left hand, grill-marked palm forward. “Greetings. Until we grill again. When does the competition start?”
Pence grins his patented grin. “Shortly. Please help yourself to a Cheeto.” He waggles his finger. “Only one per customer, though.” He turns to the Steak Prophet. “You know we wouldn’t be stuck here without your leadership, Elron.”
The austere man in the sedan chair leans over and whispers something to his First Speaker who nods and turns to Pence. “We look forward to beating your ass on the court. Now we will take a seat. The group moves off toward the grandstands silently.
“And that’s why they are so much fun at parties.” Chuckles Pence. “I believe everyone we are expecting is here now. Let’s begin.” Between the Pickleball court and the grandstands is a small platform with a podium and a microphone. Pence strides
“Friends, welcome. We are all friends here.” There is a slight chuckle from the crowd. Pence waves it down and waits a moment. “Welcome to the first Marsfest! We are here to celebrate reconnecting with Earth.” He makes a dramatic pause to make eye contact with the crowd. “But not just that, we are here to celebrate something we all want. Not just to survive, but to thrive.” The crowd grows quiet. “We have all done something historic.” He gives that winning smile. “We have gone where no man has gone before!” Cheers erupt from the blue and red shirted members of the Trek Deck. “And we have lived to tell about it. Now we reap some meager fruits of our labors and no we will divide this precious cargo that AWIS has sent us. While this is a competition for first pick, everyone goes home with something.”
“Towards the future of Mars and humanity, let the games begin!” Pence raises his arms with a fanfare of loud music. The first match is the Space Marines verses The Trek Deck.”
Two of the marines and two blue shirts advance towards the Pickleball court anxiously twirling their rackets. As they approach the court a dark haired man in a red shirt leaps forward.
“No! Here and now I challenge The Spock. I am” …a dramatic Shatner(tm) pause.. “The Kirk!” There is an audible gasp from the crowd as he rips off his red shirt and reveals the yellow shirt of command. “I challenge The Spock in single Pickleball combat. Winner gets use of the Big Chair on the bridge!”
The Spock rises from her seat on the bleachers. Bowl cut over the pointy ears, she’s five foot three feet of anger. “You will not get the Big Chair, Bob. We had a meeting about this. I wear the ears, I get the chair. Wait your turn or die young and suffer!”
Bob in the yellow shirt raises his arms to the crowd. “Are you not entertained? Shall we not settle this man to… man-ish woman? Who’s with me?” The crowd murmurs and slowly starts banging their feet on the grandstands. “Trek fight! Trek fight! Trek fight!”
The Spock gracefully jumps to the floor of the big tent. “Fine. Fine! You want combat. I’ve got your combat right here, you faccia di culo.” She grabs a racket from a blue shirt.
“Is that Vulcan for hot stud?”
She gets in the taller man’s face and snarls. “No, it’s Italian and next up I tell you what I think of what your mother does with her little dog.”
Pence breaks between the two. “Whoa whoa whoa there. Easy up. This was unscheduled, but if we need to let you grind out this beef before we get on with the main event, we can do that.” He waves to a few aides. “Get to your places on the court and behave yourselves. We’re making history here, remember.” The two move to their places on the court, grimacing at each other.
“You can bet Star Fleet is going to hear about this, buster!”
“This is for all the tribble cheese balls!” Taunts The Kirk.
“You’ll be lucky to have any balls after this.” Returns The Spock. “Here hot shot, ladies first.” She tosses a ball to him.
The Kirk moves behind the baseline on the right-hand side and makes an underhand serve diagonally to The Spock’s service court. She gets behind and and drives a deep return towards her opponent’s baseline. He lets the ball bounce and drives it hard down her left sideline. The Spock lunges and smacks the ball with her paddle, but the ball sails long.
Kirk retrieves the ball with a grin. “That went long.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”
“1 – 0, Spocko” and Kirk nails a hard serve to Spock’s forehand. Spock attacks the ball, sending a low drive straight at Kirk. He moves forward with a jot and volleys it out of the air. There’s a groan from the crowd.
“Fault!” shouts Pence. “Stay out of the kitchen, yellow shirt! Serve goes to The Spock.”
“1 – 0, meatball.” She drives a deep server to his backhand. He returns it crosscourt. She lets it bounce, and hits a drop shot lofting just over the net. Kirk races forward and hits a soft dink right near the kitchen. She dinks it back, he smacks it back, trying to angle the ball sharply towards the sideline. The Spock gives the ball a mighty smack, driving it straight at The Kirk’s chest like a missile. He dodges back, lifting his racket just in time to pop the ball upward in a slow, lazy arc over the net. With a vicious smile The Spock smashes the ball right past him.
“You’re going to have to be faster, space boy. I’m keeping the Big Chair.”
He moves back to position. “After this game we’ll see who’s the Space Man.”
She takes the ball. “1 – 1” and serves it towards his left. He reaches out and smacks it back over the net. She hits it back, a defensive shot down the line. Kirk knocks it back, just beyond the reach of her racket. “You got lucky that time, Space Boy.”
He retrieves the ball. “What’s Italian for ‘bite me’? 1 – 1” and he serves right at her. The Spock’s return is short. He waits for the bounce, then crushes a forehand into the corner. She gets there just in time and knocks back a high lob. The Kirk backs up for an overhead smash, she somehow manages to get her paddle on it and the ball floats back over the net. With a sharp cry of victory The Kirk smashes it again and it hits her court outside of her reach. The crowd claps politely.
The combatants cooly stare at each other over the net. The game continues. Like sharks sensing blood in the air both players hit aggressively. The score and the smell of sweat mounts. Drive, Block, Drive, Counter, Volley, Volley. With every change in the score the crowd hoots and hollers. Both players are sweaty and panting.
“Score 10 – 10. Pon Farr, motherfucker!” Screams The Kirk as he serves.
“You wish, you testa di cazzo!” and her return sails over the net. He dances to the side, reaching with his racket but as he does there’s a booming noise and the tent shifts under his feet, throwing him to the floor and a cloud of smoke drifts over the court. Shouts and cries from the crowd. Pence is yelling something over the noise. The far side of the tent has been breached by something that looks like a narrow black tunnel. There’s a whistling noise as air begins to leak around the ripped edges of the tent. The crowd starts to sprint towards the racks of pressure suits. Spray foam sealant from some automated system is filling the wheezing gap between the tunnel and the tent as an airlock cycles inside the tunnel and a medium sized figure in an all black pressure suit steps into the tent.
The figure in black pulls a flare gun and shoots it towards the ceiling of the tent, the sputtering orb draws the attention of the crowd. Whoever it is pulls off the black head gear. It’s a striking black woman, modest ‘fro, bold nose, white-white teeth, red lipstick.
“Miss me?” She asks.
Pence scoffs. “You could have just knocked.”
