“I do what I need to do.”

“Tomorrow?” Jere asked.

“Doubt it. I gotta go to orbit soon, to work the problems I’m trying to work down here for real.”

Ron leaned forward. “What kind of problems?”

“Crap. Where do I start? The Can’s a mess, and we haven’t even got the pods on it. Electrical is fubar, we’re having some hull integrity challenges, and they’re arguing about whether or not the air system is robust enough, to start.”

“Air? On a journey this long?” Ron said, his face drawing down into a frown. He looked at Jere as if it was his fault. Jere silently cursed himself for allowing Ron to come along.

“Yeah, yeah, the length’s the problem. Longer the voyage, the more pain to start. But we always work through it.”

Ron turned to Jere. “Let’s go film him in place.”

“What? You mean like, documentary style?”

“Yeah. We shoot it MOS as he’s doing . . . whatever the hell he’s doing, then do narration. The heroic Frank Sellers, giving his all for the cause.”

Evan nodded. “It could work.”

Frank, from the speaker: “What are you guys talking about?”

“We’re coming to see you,” Ron said.

“I don’t have time for your interviews!”

“We don’t need an interview. We’ll shoot around you, documentary style. We won’t even get in the way.”

Silence from the speaker. Jere could imagine Frank trying to find a flaw in the plan. Then: “Make it quick.”

They went to the shack near their next launch, an aged RusSpace freight rocket that was destined to become part of the Can. Jere had the cameraman take video of the grimy rocket. The only clean things on it were the Winning Mars logo and the Mars Enterprise 7 vehicle ID (some money from the Roddenberry estate, not that it mattered, the final mess might have a big ol Mars Enterprise logo on it, but it looked like a big trash can, squat and ugly and lumpy and dirty, and that’s what everyone called it.)

In the shack, Frank was hunched over an array of flatscreens. Some of them showed images of the partial Can in orbit. Some of them showed 3-D charts and graphs, like alien landscapes. One of them showed an interior shot of something with a spaghetti-mess of cables floating in air. Blobs of something like water or oil also floated in air. Two Russians wearing those funny little fur hats they liked were sitting next to Frank, wearing VR goggles and mumbling in Russian into throatmikes.

Frank looked at each of them in turn. His mouth was turned down at the edges in a perpetual frown. His gaze flicked mechanically from person to person, as if assessing each of them for signs of weakness.

Jere knew that Frank was ex-military, Air Force. He’d been on the astronaut program back in the Shuttle days but he’d never actually flown a mission. Something about the Shuttle blowing up in the 80’s. So he wasn’t really an astronaut, he was a wannabe-astronaut. Jere smiled as Frank looked at him.

“Do your shot,” Frank said, and turned back to what he was doing.

“Perfect,” Jere said. “Stay right there.” He went to tell the cameraman to get set up, but he was already doing so.

“Is that the Can?” Ron said, stepping forward to lean over Frank, pointing at the interior shot on one of the screens.

“I thought you weren’t going to bother me,” Frank said.

“Dad, get out of the shot!” Jere said.

Ron and Frank both glanced at him, then glanced away. “Is it the Can?” Ron asked again.

“Part of it,” Frank said.

“Doesn’t look too safe.”

Frank made as if to stand up, then sat down again. “Of course not. It’s not finished.”

“Is this mission safe?”

Big smile. “Of course.”

“Then how come you’re having so many problems?”

“Ron—” Jere began.

“Shut up,” Ron said. Even the Russians stopped chattering and looked up. Ron turned back to Frank. “I’m concerned.”

Frank shrugged. “They’ll make it work,” he said.

“It doesn’t seem very confidence-inspiring.”

Frank laughed. “If you could have seen half the stuff I saw behind the scenes at NASA, boy, you wouldn’t worry. These are good guys. Smart. They’ll figure it.”

“Which is why they need your help.”

“Look. I don’t have to do this. I’m helping. ‘Cause this is what I love to do. You’re making me love it less.”

“Ron, let it go,” Evan said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let everyone do their job.”

Silence for a moment, his dad’s body spring-loaded under the pressure of Evan’s hand. Then he relaxed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Please continue.”

White-hot anger surged through Jere. Evan and his dad. Like old pals. Listening to Evan. Not listening to him.

He pushed the anger down and worked with the cameraman to set up the shot. Frank scrolled through other images on the flatscreens as they shot, sometimes talking in Russian on his own throatmike, or taking long pulls from a bottle of vodka covered with Russian lettering. Jere shook his head. Just have to edit it out.

And, a little more softly, in the back of his head: He’s our fucking pilot! Should he bedrinking?

But there weren’t any other options. If there were, Neteno would have taken them. The cameraman got his shots and they headed out.

When we were back out in the freezing cold again, and well away from Russian ears, Ron turned to Jere and said, “Would you fly in this thing?”

“Of course,” Jere said. Not a bit of hesitation. Not a bit. He knew how to deal with his father, and uncertainty wasn’t the way to do it.

The older man looked up and down the Enterprise 7, standing like a dirty needle on the launchpad, and shook his head, but said nothing.

“We’re on schedule?” Ron asked Evan.

“So far,” Evan said.

Even later, when they were back in the car for another freezing, terrifying ride back to the hotel, Ron spoke again.

“Do you get the feeling that Frank wants this to work a little too much?”

“How’s that?” Jere said.

“He’s an astronaut. But he never flew.”

“So?”

A frown. “So maybe he wants to fly. Really badly.”

“Sometimes a little enthusiasm is a good thing,” Evan said.

Ron turned to Jere. “What do you think?”

Pretend to consider, then answer. “I think it’s good we have someone who loves what he does.”

Silence from Ron. Then: “I hope you’re right.”

Loner

“Help!” Geoff’s voice came faintly, far behind Keith Paul.

Keith smiled. Fucker was probably stuck in that little chimney of rock that he’d just scrambled up. Worthless geek. Ahead of Keith rose another steep slope. Beyond that, the little white flags that indicated the finish line. He didn’t dare glance at his watch. Oh, no. He was faster yesterday than the day before, and he’d be faster today than yesterday. Because I’m going to win.

“Help me! Keith!”

Keith shook his head. Like he was gonna turn back. I don’t need a fucking teammate, he kept telling the contest pukes. I put Grimes in the hospital, you want me to do that to this onetoo?

“Mr. Paul!” Faintly, as he started scrambling up the loose rocks. They rose sharply up near the end. Keith pushed hard with his legs, dancing as the rocks shifted under him. He kept hunched over, so the fifty-pound pack wouldn’t pull him back and send him tumbling backwards down the slope, like the first day he’d run the course. Not much of a pack, really, but it extended farther out than a normal pack, and a lot of the weight was at the top, which made it tricky. They said the actual packs would be lighter on Mars, and that he himself would be lighter, too, and that they might have to relearn everything they were doing here, but Keith couldn’t really imagine it. He couldn’t worry about it. If he did well here, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas, he’d do even better on Mars.

He was going to win the thing.

Up and over the top. The big gray shadow of Mt. McKinley rose in the distance, bisecting a passing cloud. The sky was cheery deep blue, like the kind of shit you saw in postcards and travel pictures from boring assholes, but the air was cold. Keith shivered and pushed on, fast down the slope. The end-of-the-route flags fluttered happily in the breeze. One of the show pukes sat on a folding chair behind a table with plastic jugs of water Gatorade on it. He looked up at Keith as he made his way down the slope, then took a little handscreen and wrote something on it.

Fucking prick, Keith thought. Probably something about Geoff not being with him. Well, you shoulda given me someone who can keep up, he’d tell them. You’re not gonnaslow me down with this geek.

The action-sports assholes came over the ridge ahead of Keith, moving fast in their funny little Spandex suits. The chick was a hot one, if you liked them like steel, with corded muscles that stood out on her legs and arms, and a tight little round ass and decent-sized tits. But she was a monstrous bitch, wouldn’t even talk to him. Not even when he was being nice and asking about all the climbing and shit she did. She just looked at him in that fucking almighty-superior way, just like the blue-haired bitches buying groceries at the Whole Foods, where he’d worked for a summer. No, not the plastic, the pay-per, they’d say, all high and hoity, as if he’d offered them a bag made of compressed dogshit.

Except the action-sports bitch said nothing at all. Even though she’d shoot her actionsports asshole companion in a moment, if she had a bottle of tequila and a shotgun handy. Keith sprinted towards the end flags, even though he knew they were on different timetables, and it didn’t matter at all who got there first. But seeing the action sports assholes running for it, he couldn’t help running for it, too. Especially that bitch. Her long legs pumped, fast, muscles bunching like steel cable. Keith caught the flash of her eyes, briefly, as she looked up at him.

She pulled out in front of action-sports dude. He reached out for her as she passed, as if to hold her back.

Keith smiled. How’s it feel, asshole?

One hundred yards. Keith was slightly ahead. He thought. It was hard to judge distance. The action sports bitch had pulled twenty feet in front of the dude. Fifty yards. No. She was closer. Shit. Keith leaned into it, pushed his screaming muscles even harder, felt them turn into something like red-hot lava in his legs, burning. But he didn’t seem to run any faster. Alena was closer to the ending flags. She was. Come on! Come on legs! Keith pleaded with his body.

Twenty yards. Ten.

The action-sports bitch ran through the flags. She threw her hands high in victory, and high-stepped off her velocity, her feet throwing up little puffs of orange dust. Keith and the action-sports dude almost collided as they went through the flags. Dead heat. No winner.

No, you’re a loser, he told himself, looking at the spandex-suited woman, now bent over and panting in the scrub.

“What was that?” showpuke said. He wore a name badge, but Keith had long since stopped trying to decode them. It didn’t matter anyway. “This isn’t a race! There isn’t a winner here!”

Keith smiled, taking big whooping breaths.

“It was fun,” action-sports bitch called, still bent over.

Showpuke frowned and tried another tact: “Where’s Geoff?” he asked.

“Fell down . . . a hill . . . died,” Keith said, between huge breaths.

“He . . . what? He did?” showpuke said. His hand jerked towards his handscreen. “Yeah . . . big mess, splat!”

Handscreen went to mouth. Showpuke’s eyes were wide. In the distance, action-sports dude and bitch were circling each other, like fighters in the ring.

“No,” Keith said. “Not dead . . . got himself stuck. What was my time?”

Goggle-eyes from the showpuke. “You . . . what . . . time?”

“Yes.” Keith tapped his watch. “Time.”

“What about Geoff? You have to go back and get him!”

“I don’t have to do shit. Time?”

“If he’s stuck, he might be hurt.”

Keith nodded. “It’s possible. Time?”

“No! We have to go get him.”

Keith pretended to look thoughtful. “If you tell me my time, maybe I’ll get him.”

“12:08.5.” The showpuke said.

“Cool,” Keith said. He’d shaved another fourteen seconds off. Progress, progress. He grabbed a Gatorade and headed for the Neteno van, parked in the shade of a large boulder.

“Hey!” Showpuke said. “You said you’d go get Geoff.”

“I said ‘maybe,’” Keith said, not turning around.

“But . . . you said!”

“I changed my mind.” Keith said, smiling into the distance.

He heard the showpuke arguing with the action-sports assholes. From the tone, they were telling him to fuck right off. That made Keith’s smile grow. They got it. They were the ones to watch. It was always good when the competition got obvious. Because hey, you never knew when your climbing gear might have a little problem. Or when someone might be just a little ahead of you on the course, setting up some little surprises. He remembered Jimmy, trying to talk him out of staying on the show. But that was stupid. They paid him more to sit on his ass than he’d ever made. And there was the big prize, the thirty million or whatever it was supposed to be now.

One chance in five isn’t bad, Jimmy had agreed.

One chance in five, hell, Keith said. I’m going to win it.Can’t count on that, Jimmy said.

But Keith had just grinned. He was going to win. He knew it. He could feel it. Everyone else here was soft. While they were going back to get team-members who’d fallen down, he’d be moving ahead. While they were arguing which way to go, he’d be getting farther in front. Eventually, Geoff made it over the ridge, and the showpuke stopped chattering into his handscreen. His gray clothes were streaked with orange dirt, and his hair stuck out in odd spiky angles, but he didn’t seem hurt. He walked, slowly, down the slope towards the finish flags, casting low-lidded glances in Keith’s direction from time to time. Maybe he’d quit today, with the big boo-hoo face he was wearing. Keith smiled. If not today, soon.

Schedule

“What the hell does Timberland know about making space suits?” Evan said. He shuffled through the documents on his deskspace, arranging and rearranging them as if trying to make them into something he wanted to read. He rubbed his face, pulling it into a comic mask of fatigue and frustration.

Why should you care? Jere thought. You have the easy job. I need to keep this studio running in this fucking lean time. Nobody believes anything we do anymore, and the world, for a change, was quiet. Not much real stuff to leverage. Things were boring in the world. And boring, for Neteno, wasn’t good.

And I get to sell these second-tier assholes. You’re too good to do that, apparently. You just deliver the news that the schedule’s been pushed, then stand back when the sponsors start to pull.

So. Fuck you, Evan. Fuck you very much.

“They’ll pay to do it,” Jere said.

“Another prime sponsor.” Sarcastically.

“What, like you’re suddenly worried about our contestants?”

Evan shrugged and stood up to pace. “RusSpace finally got back to me.”

“And?”

“And we’re fucked.”

For a moment, the word didn’t even register with Jere. Then he heard the phrase like a physical blow. “Fucked! What does fucked mean, like they won’t do it? Don’t tell me they’re pulling out. Don’t tell me we just boosted a ton of shit into orbit so they can make another goddamn hotel at cut-rates, when our whole show turns to shit.”

“No, no. They still want to do it. But it’s going to cost three times what we thought.”

Jere’s stomach surged and bucked like a demented roller coaster. Three times. That was impossible. They were taking residuals on future value of the Neteno building. He’d sold options on his condo. And the big money was already getting cold feet. GM and Boeing pulled out when the schedule last slid. So now it was Kia and Cessna for the Wheels and the Kites. Good names, yeah, but not blue-chip. Maybe it would boost the ratings, that bit of risk, that added chance . . . Evan nodded. “Yeah, it’s a shit cocktail, all right.”

“We can’t do this,” Jere said. His voice sounded hollow and faraway. Evan shrugged. “We have to.”

“No. You don’t understand. We can’t do this. Unless you and dad have tons of money stuffed up your ass, we’re baked. RusSpace gets their orbital hotel on the cheap. And we get shit.”

Evan was silent for a long time. Finally: “There’s no more money.”

It was Jere’s turn to be silent. He tugged at his hair and paced the room. He looked up at the scrolling Neteno sign, but it was long-gone, reprogrammed and sold to another company. Now they just had big plastic letters lit by LEDs, like everyone else.

“So what’s the problem this time? RusSpace lied again? They fucked up? What?”

“No.” A sigh. “Dick ran the analysis. For once, the basic designs look solid. It’s the testing that’s killing us. Five drop modules, five backout pods, five Wheels, five Kites, the big package of Returns, a ship with a fucking centrifuge, for God’s sake, goddamn, it’s a lot of shit to do!”

“So what do we do?”

“We scale it back.” Evan said, not looking at him.

“What? Take it to three teams?”

“No. Scale back the build and the test. Leave out the backout pods, for example.”

“What happens if the team can’t make it to the Returns?”

A slow smile. “Tough snatch, said the biatch.”

“What?”

“Before your time.” Another shrug. This one slow, lazy, nonchalant. “If they can’t make it to the Returns, they probably can’t make it back. Plus, they signed the waivers.”

“But . . . will this get us to budget?”

“I don’t know. But we could do more.”

Jere’s gut felt like a giant spring, knotted and twisting. “What?”

“Skip final test of the Kites and the Wheels. All they are is a bunch of fabric and struts anyway.”

“And?”

“Leave the spinner down on the ground.”

“How are the contestants supposed to stay in shape if they don’t have gravity?”

“We’ll put in a whole lot of Stairmasters. They can exercise. And we get another sponsor.”

Jere felt his lunch straining to come back up on him. How much more can we sell out?

He wondered. “And?”

“And, that might get us back on track. Or so say our formerly communist friends.”

“Will they guarantee it?”

“They aren’t guaranteeing anything anymore. But I think it’s a lot more likely that we’ll make the budget if we drop some of the fluff.”

Fluff. Yeah, fluff. Just a bunch of safety gear. Nobody will notice.

“We have to make a decision,” Evan said. Jere stopped and looked at him. Now, there was no uncertainty. No hint of doubt. No humanity at all in his leaden eyes.

“I don’t know,” Jere said.

“It’s this, or BK. You said it yourself.”

Jere felt something in his eyes. He rubbed it away. “We’re gambling with people’s lives.”

“Someone’s going to die. Probably lots of someones,” Evan said, softly. Jere started, as if he’d just grabbed a live circuit. So this was all grandstanding from thestart? All an act? Orchestrated and manipulated to achieve the desired result?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Of course it was. That was what they did.

“We’d be taking a huge chance,” Jere said.

Evan shook his head. “What’s a bigger chance? Trying to scrape more money, or making a few changes?”

A few changes. Nothing big. Nothing major. Nothing we won’t be crucified for if someone dies and it comes out that we did this crap at the last minute. Their trial might have a bigger audience than the whole Winning Mars thing. Maybe Neteno could get the rights to that.

“Can we do this clean?” Jere said. The words seemed to come from very far away. It was like he was not speaking at all. “Can we make it look like we never had plans for the centrifuge, the backout stuff, all that?”

“I’m sure we can arrange something.”

“Are you sure?”

“Russians are some of the best data-manipulators in the world. I hear they helped the president with that little indiscretion last year, the one you can’t find on Found Media anymore.”

Jere let the silence stretch out. Evan watched him intently. In the dim light of the office, his weathered features could have been the craggy face of a demon.

“Do it,” Jerry said finally, softly. Hating himself.

Loss

The people at Bob’s Pizza Restaurant in Independence looked at Patrice and Jere with open-eyed stares. No quick little sidelong glances, I’m-really-not-looking-at-you-don’t-reallycare-about-you stuff like you got in Hollywood, when the locals brushed shoulders with real celebrities, but real holy-shit-what-are-they stares.

And they’re probably just looking at us because we’re strangers, not celebrities, Patrice thought. Jere’s sleek little Armani jacket and perfectly-faded but ultra-clean jeans clashed with the sea of dirty plaid and denim, and nobody but Jere wore an eyepod. Patrice liked to think they were looking at her because she’d been in interactives, but she hadn’t done anything for the past eighteen months, and people’s memories were short, so they were probably just looking at her because she was one of the wierdos out jumping around on the rocks, getting prepped for some Hollywood thing they didn’t really care about.

“I’m sorry,” Jere said, looking down at his pizza. Big pools of orange grease gathered in every piece of heat-curled pepperoni. She imagined Jere looking at his reflection in those polkadot mirrors.

“About what?”

“This place,” he said. “I wish I could take you somewhere better.”

“It’s the only game in town, other than Samwiches.”

“Yeah. Still.” He looked up at her. His eyes seemed sunken, and his gaze was faraway.

“What’s wrong?” Patrice said.

Jere tried a smile. It fit like a fat guy’s suit on a stickman. “How’s your training going?”

he asked/

“Not so good,” she said. “I don’t like Geoff.”

“Who’s Geoff?”

“The geek.”

“Which one?”

“The one with the sandwich-board.”

Jere nodded. “I thought you were with the lesbians.”

“I was. They didn’t like me. They said I was slow. So they put me with Geoff. Because creepy-guy didn’t like him.”

“Is Keith giving you any trouble?”

Patrice shook her head. “No.” Other than some good eyeballing at the hotel in the morning, as they passed in the lobby. But, since security took him aside, he hadn’t said anything to her.

“Good.”

“You should hire Damon Hur,” she said.

“Why?” Jere said, blinking.

“He’s a good actor. We could be the actor team.”

“You like Damon now?” Sitting up, looking at her in that oh-shit way that guys have, when they think they’re about to be upstaged.

Patrice smiled and grabbed Jere’s hand. “No. Not as much as you. We’d just make a good team, I think.”

“Oh.” Still that look.

“Jere, you don’t have to worry about me!”

Just a look, neutral.

“Though I do have another offer,” Patrice said. “It’s a really good one too, first-run, Vice City 10. They’ll give me front cover, and input on advertising and tieins.” She couldn’t resist. She wanted to see Jere wave his hands and say, No, you can’t do that! Don’t do that! He was so easy to tease.

But, this time, he just looked down at his hands. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to say something, but no words came out.

“Jere?” she said.

“Maybe you should take it,” Jere said. His voice was soft and faraway. Patrice started. “What?”

Jere looked up at her. His eyes sparkled, as if brimming with tears. “I said, maybe you should take it. It sounds like a hell of an offer. It’s a Gen3 title, isn’t it?”

Patrice’s heart thudded, quick, like rain. “Quit teasing!”

“I’m not. You should take it.”

“Jere, this isn’t funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Patrice squeezed back tears. “Yes you are! Yes you are!” She pounded the table with her fists, twice. More eyes swiveled to stare at them. She could feel the locals’ gaze, hot on the back of her neck.

“Patrice, what’s wrong?”

“You are! You are! This was supposed to be a joke, don’t you know?”

“You mean you don’t have another offer?”

“Yes! I do! I get them all the time. But I don’t want to take them! They’re just for fun, just a tease. I’m teasing you, can’t you see that?” Tears started flowing in earnest, and Patrice scrabbled in her purse for a tissue.

Jere looked as if someone had clocked him in the forhead with a sledgehammer. His mouth hung open. His eyes were slightly crossed. He got out of his chair, and came to put his arms around her. Patrice shrugged him off and stood up, backing away.

“You were serious?” Patrice said. “You want me to do Vice City?”

Jere stood with his arms wide, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Yes,” he said.

“I was serious.”

“Why?” she wailed. “I was really trying on the courses, and they just got the big rollythings out here, and they’re always falling apart, and I know I’m not good at them, but I’ll get better. I’m trying! I really am!”

Jere’s eyes were filled with tears. She watched as one began sliding down his cheek. Fast, darting, it disappeared under his chin.

Why is he crying? I don’t understand this, she thought.

“It’s not that,” he said.

“Then what is it? Why are you crying?”

Jere wiped at his eyes, then looked down at the floor. “I can’t . . . I can’t let . . . you miss any more opportunities.”

“What?” It sounded like he was going to say something else, then caught himself.

“Take the gig,” Jere said.

Patrice suddenly felt very cold. “I can’t believe you’re saying that.”

“I . . . Patrice . . . we can still be together.”

She saw her billing, The only actor ever on Mars, flying away. She saw the chance at the money, very decent money, flying away. She saw all the sponsorships and gigs and tie-ins and merchandising, flying away.

“What if I want to stay?” Patrice said, slow and cold.

“I don’t think you should give up this opportunity.”

In other words, fuck right off. Which explained why he wanted to take her to a fancier restaurant. Which explained why he’d come all the way up here to see her.

“I see,” Patrice said.

“I . . . Patrice, this doesn’t change anything between us.”

“That’s what you think,” she said.

She turned and walked, slowly, out of the pizza place. Leaving Jere to the eyes of the locals.

Fuck you, Jere, she thought. Fuck you all to hell.Oversight

The spooks came on a rainy November morning, less than three months before launch. Jere was still trying to convince himself that making the August sweeps would be better than February, that all the other networks would be showing repurposed or reedited stalies against their shiny new program.

The rags liked it, saying Neteno would probably take the sweeps. The sponsors were less excited, because no matter how you sliced it, there was less access in the summer. People would be on vacation, doing things down here on good old planet Earth, and they wouldn’t care what was going on almost a hundred million miles away. So now a lot of the sponsors wanted guaranteed access levels or kickbacks or better position or whatever. Jere got about fifteen seconds notice. Dad came hustling into his office, heel-toeing it like someone had a gun in his back. His eyes were wide. He sat down in one of the chairs opposite Jere’s desk.

“We’re having a meeting,” Ron said.

“What?”

A quick glance towards the door. “Don’t kick me out. You need a witness.”

Then, loudly. “The hell with the sponsors, let them whine about prices.”

“Dad?”

His father gave him a desperate, wide-eyed look, like an actor hamming it up in an old linear. But little beads of sweat stood out on his brow.

Something like a giant cold hand grabbed Jere in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah,” Jere said. “Let them complain.”

Dad nodded, smiling grimly.

Two men walked through the door of Jere’s office. Which in itself was wrong. Sharon shouldn’t have let anyone through.

They wore indistinguishable blue suits and cheap black ties. Their eyes were heavy and dead and immobile, like they’d seen everything that Ron and Evan had put together, but they were young, not out of their twenties. Both wore cheap black eyepods. They also small gold motion-holo pins that flashed and gleamed as the eye morphed into a world and back again. Underneath the holo were the etched letters: USG OVERSIGHT.

Oh holy fucking shit, Jere thought. He struggled to keep his expression neutral.

“Mr. Gutierrez?” One of them said, stepping forward to the desk and flashing his ID. Jere looked at it. It was one of those new fancy holo things that they were trying to sell to everyone, but this one had a big NASA logo and a discreet little eye next to it. He didn’t see the name.

“Yes,” Jere said.

Agent #1 turned to his father. “And you, sir?”

“I’m Ron.”

“Ron . . .”

“Gutierrez.”

“Ah. The father. We didn’t know you had a stake in this.”

“Then you aren’t doing your research, young man!”

Silence. Agent #1 turned to Agent #2. #2 pursed his lips. “Our discussion is to be with Jere Gutierrez.”

“And me,” Ron said.

“We have the capability of removing you.”

“Because I’m such a threatening old man?”

Another glance. “You may remain.”

Jere blew out of breath. Make nice, remember. Even if they are your biggest competitor.Or, in this case, even if they can make you disappear. “Would you like a seat? Coffee?”

Agent #1 sat. The other remained standing.

“What’s this all about?” Jere asked.

“Your program. Winning Mars.”

“Why?” Humor defines the individual. “Would you like to be a sponsor?”

No reaction. Not even a glance. Agent #1 said, “There will be no program.”

“What!” Jere and Ron said, at once. Ron stood up, and Jere waved him to sit. Agent #1 just looked at them, his expression neutral. “We will not permit the launch.”

Ron laughed. “We’ve already sent most everything up for assembly. What exactly are you going to stop? The passenger shuttle? Are you going to shut down RusSpace, too? On Russian soil?”

“No. Enterprise shall not launch. Or maneuver.”

“What? Why?” Jere said.

“Enterprise would be an effective terror weapon, if it was dropped on a city.”

“A terror weapon?” Jere said.

“That’s stupid!” Ron said. “We’re going to go through all the trouble of putting together a ship in orbit, only to bring it down again? Why not just launch a nuke from the ground?”

Agent #2 allowed a thin smile. “And you have access to a nuke?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Still, you recognize the implied threat.”

Ron colored an ugly beet-red. “No! Don’t be stupid.”

Agent #1 held up a hand. “You must acknowledge the possibility that someone could take over Enterprise. If it was turned back on the US, how big a crater would it make, say in Washington DC? Or New York, for that matter?”

Ron’s face had turned red. “That’s . . . idiotic!”

“What do you want?” Jere asked.

“We want to prevent any possible attack on the United States.”

Ron nodded, sudden understanding gleaming in his eyes. “China.”

“Excuse me?” Agent #1 said.

“China’s bitching about our program, aren’t they? They don’t want to lose face because they said they’d go to Mars and didn’t, and now a bunch of miserable capitalists are doing it for a TV show!”

“Free-access linear,” Jere couldn’t help saying.

“Whatever. I bet that’s it, isn’t it?”

Agent #1 shrugged. “It is your option to speculate.”

“So what do you want?” Jere said.

Agent #1 looked politely confused. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“How do we launch? What do you want from us to make it happen?”

“You don’t launch,” Agent #2 said. “There is no negotiation.”

Agent #1 leaned forward. “However, if you turn the program over to us, we would provide proper acknowledgement of your role in this endeavor.”

“We can’t do that!” Jere said.

“We are not offering a negotiation,” Agent #2 said.

“What about our sponsors? They’ll come for our heads. Hell, the Organizatsiya will come for our heads, too! We can’t just hand this over to you.”

“I’m sure we can work out an arrangement with the Russians. They do share some of our commitment to eliminating terrorism.”

Jere slumped back in his chair. Oversight could do almost anything they wanted if they called it terrorism. He could be picked up and whisked away and never seen again. He could have everything taken from him piece by piece, a Job job. Or worse. Taking their offer might be the best bet. Of course, he’d have to get Evan in on it, but maybe there was some way to profit from it anyway. When you were talking deep pockets, the government had the deepest pockets of all. Maybe they could spin it . . .

“No fucking way!” Ron said. His face was almost purple. He levered himself up out of his chair and went to tower over the seated agent. The standing one tensed, but didn’t move. Ron poked a finger in Agent #1’s chest. “We’re not going to Mars to plant fucking flags!”

“Dad—”

“Shut up.” Low and deadly.

“Did the fucking pilgrims come to plant fucking flags?” Ron said. “No! They came to get away from bureaucratic fucks like you! You assholes had your chance. How many billions did we give to you shitpoles? What did we get for it? Our lunar rovers in Chinese museums! A bunch of rusting hardware crash-landed on Mars. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Now it’s our chance!”

Jere watched his dad, open-mouthed. He was frozen in place. His mind gibbered. We’redead, maybe we can get a flight out, where do we go . . .

“You’re going to throw your lives away on this?” Agent #1 asked. “For this show? This is just a publicity stunt! A linear!”

“Is it?” Ron had gone wild-eyed. Jere thought of prophets, energized by the power of God.

Agent #2 stepped forward quickly and put his hand on Agent #1’s shoulder. He bent and whispered something in his ear. Agent #1 nodded and stood. Both of them now faced Ron.

“So you refuse to turn over the program, according to the directives of USG Oversight?”

“Yes,” Ron said.

The two swiveled to look at Jere. “And does he speak for you?”

Jere looked at his father. Ron looked back steadily, intently. He nodded, just a fraction.

“Yes,” Jere said.

The agents stood there for a moment longer, their expressions unreadable. Jere couldn’t stand looking at them.

“Get out of here,” he said.

The agents turned and filed out. Ron looked up at Jere, the ghost of a smile on his face.

“We did the right thing,” Ron said.

I hope you’re right, dad, Jere thought. I hope you know what you’re doing. 125

Otherwise, we’re both dead.

Wheel

Mike Kinsson bounced along Movie Trail Road outside Independence, riding inside something that resembled a hamster-wheel wrapped in cellophane. Mike had seen tourists and locals laugh and point as they bounced from rut to rut. He wondered if they knew how much sense their vehicle made on Mars, where they had no idea what kind of terrain they would encounter, and they had no weight budget for anything like a conventional 4WD truck. But, he had to admit, it probably did look ridiculous.

And it was certainly uncomfortable. Beside him, Juelie Peters and Sam Ruiz gripped their harnesses grimly, as every shock and jolt were transmitted directly through the frame to their perch. The hydrazine engine they’d use on Mars had been replaced with a small gasoline engine, which buzzed like a gigantic insect near Mike’s ear.

And, to top it all off, their miracle dust-won’t-stick-to-it polymer was indeed attracting dust, as well as being scratched and hazed by the rocks they passed over. Seeing through it had become more and more difficult. Now, Mike tried to duck his head outside the spinning rim, to get a better view of the trail they were following. He couldn’t quite reach. He squinted and sighed. Off-road probably wasn’t all that different from the rutted trail. They crested a rise and caught a brief moment of air.

“Hey!” Sam said. “Be careful!”

“I know, I know,” Mike said, squeezing the brake to slow their descent down the hill. Rain had cut deep channels down the middle of the trail, and at their right side as well. Mike steered them over towards the left side of the road.

I am getting the hang of this thing, he thought.

They hit a little gully where a small stream crossed the road. There was a metallic groan that Mike heard even over the buzzing of the engine.

Then he was falling towards a crumpling mess of plastic sheeting and buckled aluminum struts. It happened so fast it almost seemed like the wreckage was flying at him. Mike put out his hands, as the knee of a bent strut came up at him . . .

He hit the ground, hard, taking the knee of the strut in his stomach. Pain exploded. Juelie screamed. Sam Ruiz cursed. The gasoline engine screamed for a moment as it freewheeled, then went into shutdown.

Suddenly there was silence, except for the soft rustling of the plastic sheets. Mike rolled over on his side, hands clutched around his belly. Above him, dirty plastic colored the blue sky a dull gray.

He looked down at his stomach, expecting to see a metal strut poking out of it. There was nothing. He pulled up his shirt. There was one small red mark, nothing more.

“That’ll be a fucker of a bruise tomorrow,” Sam said, unhooking himself from his harness. He’d come out of the crash without ever hitting the ground.

“Juelie,” Mike said, and turned. She was on all fours, still harnessed in, groaning.

“Alive,” she said.

“Need help?”

A glance. A glare. “Not from you.”

Sam grinned at Mike and went over to help Juelie up. Sam was one of those wiry-thin, athletic guys with a face like something out of the Interactive Plastic Surgery Guide to Looking Like the Perfect Man. So he wasn’t surprised.

But still, nice to be surprised now and again, Mike thought. Once he was out of wreckage, Mike stood with hands on hips, frowning at the shattered remains of their Wheel. The winter breeze was chilly, but he had to wipe sweat out of his eyes. His hands still shook.

“Oh, shit, now I’m worried,” Sam said, emerging from the pile of struts and plastic. He led Juelie by the hand.

“What do you mean?” Juelie said.

“Mike looks worried.”

“I don’t get it.”

“If a True Believer looks worried, I should be worried, too.”

An instant of blue eyes and heavy non-blonde eyebrows. “Huh?”

Sam ignored her. He dropped her hand and went to stand by Mike. “Are you worried?”

“This is the second time our Wheel crapped out,” Mike said.

“So we walk back.”

They were still three miles out from the pickup point on Movie Trail, which was still ten miles outside of Independence. But that wasn’t what made Mike frown.

“What if it breaks on Mars?” Mike said.

“They said these were specially made for earth, like, bulkier, or something.”

Mike nodded. They had made the point that these Wheels were made heavier to withstand earth gravity, but inertia was inertia, wherever they were. What if they ran into a ravine — on thinner struts — and the Wheel left them stranded on Mars? The whole thing was a tensioned space frame. One weak link, and the whole thing came down.

“If it breaks on Mars, we’re done. There isn’t any truck to walk to.”

Sam started. “They’ll come pick us up.”

“No. They won’t. You saw the plans. There’s no backup.”

“But they have to pick us up!” this from Juelie, arms crossed.

“No. They don’t.”

“We can fix it,” Sam said.

“With what?”

“I . . . shit, they’ve gotta give us duct tape or something,” Sam said.

“I don’t think that would do it,” Mike said. They didn’t understand. They would never understand. There was a very real possibility they could all die on Mars. And, oddly enough, the more he thought about it, the more he was OK with it. Here liesMike, who gave his life to pioneer humanity’s path to other worlds sounded a whole lot better than Here lies Mike, who worked for Yahoo for forty years and managed to put enough moneyaway so he wouldn’t starve when he was old.

At least part of it was his last conversation with his parents, who had appointed themselves the official Negative News Gatherers for Winning Mars. Every phone conversation ended shortly after they said, “Oh, yeah, and I don’t know if you heard, but . . .

. . . Neteno’s in financial trouble, that’s what they all say . . .

. . . the Russians had their first little orbital accident, it only killed one of their staff, but we worry about you . . .

. . . buzz is Oversight is looking into Winning Mars . . .”

And so on.

“What are you trying to say?” Juelie asked.

Mike looked away. “I’m not trying to say anything.”

“He’s saying, if the Wheel breaks while we’re on Mars, we might as well pack it in. We’re dead.”

Silence for a time. Juelie took a step towards Sam. Another.

“You’re trying to scare us off,” Juelie said. “You want to be like that Paul guy. Have the prize all to yourself.”

Mike just looked at them. He didn’t know what to say.

“Is that it?” Sam asked.

“No!” Mike said. “I wouldn’t be able to assemble everything in time. Keith Paul is a bear!”

“So you’ve thought about it?”

“Not until now, no!”

Sam retreated to Juelie and put an arm around her. She leaned into him and glared at Mike.

“Look. I just want us to win. To win, we have to stay alive.” Put it in terms you’llunderstand.

Juelie and Sam shared a glance, but relaxed visibly. “So what do we do?” Sam said. I could offer to help them with the design, Mike thought. Except for the one little fact that he didn’t know anything about mechanical engineering. But Sam and Juelie were sufficiently uneducated to think, since he was a techie, he could probably help. Or we can just say fuck it, pack a roll of low-temp duct tape, and take a chance, Mike thought. But they wouldn’t like to hear that, either. They probably had plans for their lives, plans that probably involved having kids and going out to dinner and spending the thirty million dollars they’d win, throwing parties for friends and flying to trendy places in France and New York and Acapulco. Anything that might interrupt that kind of grandiose dream, they wouldn’t want to hear about.

But it’s the explorers who are remembered, Mike thought. The people who made a difference. Columbus, not the people who financed him. Lindbergh, not the people who built his plane. Armstrong, not Mission Control. Edison, not the millionaires he made. Einstein, not the people who used his physics.

But they wouldn’t understand that, either.

Would you, dying under an alien sky?

“I don’t know,” he said, finally.

They trudged back to the pickup point in the low-slanting light of the afternoon sun, their shadows cast before them like giants.

Freedom

When Oversight came back, it was with two grinning NASA executives and their own camera crew. Following them were one hundred and fifty thousand people who jammed the Hollywood streets in cars and on motorcycles and on bikes and on foot, holding banners saying

“Free Enterprise!” and “We are NOT communists!” and “New frontiers, not new Oversight!” and of course, “NASA SUCKS!”

Jere, Ron and Evan couldn’t help grinning themselves. Within a day, Ron’s video of the NASA/Oversight shakedown had been posted on a thousand message boards and ten thousand blogs. The video that Oversight had tried to grab right out of Ron’s eye. But Hollywood wins again, Jere thought. The money they’d spent on encryption, rights management and network protection had finally paid off. Neteno’s networks had gotten slow for a few hours after the meeting, as they fought off the Oversight attack. But data from Ron’s old eyecam was safe.

They let Oversight think they’d deleted the video. Then they’d buried it in a viral about an extreme sports death and seeded the world net.

The raw video almost brought the AV IM network to its knees in the US, Japan, France, Russia, and even parts of China. A thousand pundits spouted off about “The New Stalin,” “The New Face of Censorship,” the fact that the Constitution had long been paved over, the freeenterprise foundation of the country, and the “Taking of the New Frontier.”

The New Frontier had struck the core audience like a well-spoken diatribe supporting socialized health care at a meeting of Reformed Republicans. Survivalists polished their weapons and streamed out of the Sierras and Appalachians and half-forgotten Nebraska missile silos to demonstrate. TrekCon 21 was turned into a huge caravan that converged on Sacramento, trapping senators in their buildings, demanding the governor secede so that Neteno could go about its business. They were there three days, gathering even more participants from around the country, as over a million people, some in overalls and prickly beards and armed with shotguns, some wearing Klingon outfits, some poorly-spoken science fiction writers, some housewives in SUVs, some businessmen who worked in aviation and space and engineering, still with that glint of adventure and discovery and progress in their eyes. In three days, two slogans were posted at over ten million websites, plastered on bumper stickers, hung from suction-cups behind windows: Free Enterprise, and Give Us New Frontiers. A week after the video hit the net, Jere received a discreet phone call from a higher-up at USG Oversight. The higher-up made him a very generous offer. Jere politely refused and made his own counteroffer.

A day after that, he received another phone call, politely accepting the prime sponsorship for the mission, for a price greater than the entire monies they had collected to date. The launch would go forward as planned. Jere and Ron and Evan were still the controlling shareholder. The only real differences were that there would be one NASA observer present at the launch, they would carry some NASA interferometers and measurement gear, and there would be another discreet logo added on the ship and the suits.

Jere watched Evan and Ron as the NASA muckty spouted off about “New Partnership with Business,” and how wonderful this opportunity was. The second-best bit was them shooting it under the big new Neteno sign out in front of the building. The best bit, Jere thought, was that it was real. Real. Verifiable. Neteno’s star was rising once again.

And they might even be doing a public service. Lefties and righties both talked about the New Press being the counterbalance to Oversight. And the crowd looked happy, vindicated, relieved. As if they were thinking, Good, Good, we still have the power, we still live in a freecountry.

“We are proud to be able to support this effort, and apologize for any misunderstanding our previous interactions caused,” the muckty said. “For less than the cost of a single robotic Mars lander, we are sending the first manned mission to Mars. With this mission, we have again leaped ahead of the Chinese and the Russians. We see this as a model for future exploration of space: USG Oversight and private industry, working hand-in-hand to accomplish our goals.”

Some applause, some boos, some catcalls. But it was done. They were back on track. It even got them their advertising hooks: Free Enterprise, and The Newest Frontier. Both were really catching on in a big way, buzzing around the net. Some studios even floated ideas for competing programs.

So now it’s more than a game, he thought. It was a demonstration of some of the things that people will need to do to conquer the red planet. Or at least they’d spin it that way. He looked at his dad. He’d taken the biggest chance. If Oversight had pulled his video, they’d probably both be in a very small cell in a very remote part of the country right now. Fucking showoff, Jere thought. But it was a soft thought. For now, at least, his dad was okay.

Not like Evan and his hard, unblinking eyes. To him, it was all still just a game. A game played hard, winner take all.

Kite

Nandir Patel imagined flying his Kite to be something akin to being suspended over the desert in a hang-glider. He’d seen films from hang-gliders, and had always secretly wanted to try one. But that would mean taking time away from the company for training, for test flights, for selecting the right glider, for packing it up and carting it to the foothills, for an hour or two of silent flight. His time was worth more when he worked on software. Or worked on the company. And that was what mattered. Making enough to step off the treadmill. Then he could sigh in relief, take a breather, learn to hang-glide, write a novel, or just sit in Peet’s and drink tea all day, musing and waiting for the day the perfect woman would come along. But he didn’t expect to be shipped down to El Segundo, and hung in a small blue cylindrical room in the far corner of a large concrete tilt-up building. He noticed there was something like a treadmill below him, set on the floor.

“This is the test flight?” he asked them.

“It is.” The woman who strapped him in wore a white t-shirt with the logo of Moto Robotics on it, faded, over tight blue jeans. Long brunette hair cascaded down her back.

“You’re a technician?”

“Engineer,” she said.

“So this is a simulation?”

“Kinda,” she said. She went on to explain that the model Kite was only 1/4 scale, so it could fit in a barometrically-controlled wind tunnel. They’d take the pressure down to Martian levels, run the tunnel, and use force feedback from the model to provide him with realistic control inputs on his full-sized harness.

“What about my teammate?”

A quick grin. “Simulated.”

“So they aren’t going to build a full-sized model?”

“Can’t. There’s so much more air here on earth, tests would be meaningless. Or we’d have to fly in the stratosphere, but then you’d have to wear a spacesuit.”

“Squeezesuit,” Nandir said, frowning, remembering his fitting for the thing. He would be happy never having to wear one again. When he first slid it on, he thought, Oh, hey, this isn’tbad, kind of like long underwear, but when they’d activated the fabric, he felt like it had become a giant snake, and was squeezing him to death. His genitals were clasped in a death-grip. He could feel the catheter, digging into the skin of his crotch.

And you have to wear that for days on Mars, he thought. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

“Have a good time,” the brunette engineer said, and waved from the door. Nandir waved back.

The room went dark, then lit again, this time with an immersive of Mars. Nandir smiled. It was good. Really good. The illusion was almost seamless, except for some light-spill where the vertical wall met the ceiling and floor. If he looked straight ahead, he could imagine he was suspended over Mars. Orange, arid rocks beneath him. Pink sky ahead. “We’ll start the simulation now,” the woman’s voice said. “First we’ll do steady-state, then landing, then takeoff.”

The buzz of an engine came through the speaker. Nandir supposed it was to simulate the sound of their hydrazine motor. The ground unrolled under him quickly, and the airframe became live in his hands.

Nandir pulled the control bar forward, dipping the nose of the Kite. The ground rose up to meet him. Fast. He pulled up. The Kite jerked up. He saw nothing but sky. Then the craft heeled over and he saw nothing but ground. It came at him, fast. It stopped with a comical crashing noise.

“Easy!” the engineer said. “You need to be very gradual with the control inputs. You’re flying pretty fast and low to get lift, remember. There isn’t a lot of margin for error.”

“What about automatic control?” Nandir said. “You should be able to limit control input to defined parameters.”

A laugh. “Oh yeah. You’re the software guy. Good thinking, software guy, but you’re assuming we have servos. This is manual input, unmediated. You have to be careful.”

“Oh.”

“Now, let’s try it again,” she said, and the ground unrolled under him. Nandir eventually got the hang of the controls, and the extremely light touch they required. When he got used to that, they had him do landings. After the seventh comic crash, he finally was able to bring the craft down to a smooth landing. The harness lowered with him, allowing his feet to run on the treadmill. The treadmill moved too fast for him, and he lost his footing three more times before he managed a successful landing.

“Not bad,” the engineer said.

“As compared to?”

“Betting pool,” she said. “You’re the first. The rest of your friends come later.”

Compared to landing, taking off was relatively easy. The only catch was angling the engine’s thrust, because it had to be up full in order to give them enough lift to take off. When he finally managed that, Nandir earned a round of applause over the speaker. The convict asshole was next. He glared at Nandir when he walked into the little room.

“This is flyin?” he asked.

Nandir smiled. “This, sir, is flying.”

Another glare. Nandir ducked out of the room, chuckling.

Popularity

Tonightshow.com was one of the survivors of the golden age of television, so Jere supposed it was appropriate that he’d appear there. But it still seemed strange. Tonightshow was where the up-and-comers and just-over-the-hills came to get skewered, gently, by the perpetual and ageless Jay Leno. Jere wondered how many strange treatments the man had gone though over the last couple of decades, how many little trips out of the country he’d taken, and how many hairs of his familiar salt-and-pepper coiffure weren’t made of some synthetic fiber. I shouldn’t be here, Jere thought, as the makeup guy worked on him, in the little dressing room.

But maybe he should. On his way to the studio, he’d passed a mural of Mars, drawn by locals with UV-active paint, so it sparkled and morphed in his Porsche’s HID lights. On the Hollywood and Vine macrodisplay, promos for Winning Mars chased across the giant screen. His earbuds whispered that Ho-Man’s Spirit of Mars was currently playing on the Hip-Hop (light, positive) channel, and The New Daves’ Fuckin Mars was playing on the Mashup channel of the A-only nets.

It was just like Evan said. Just like the charts showed. They’d done more than touch a nerve. They’d gone live wire. The world turned around Mars, for this brief time. Part of it was probably their famous Oversight video, twenty-one point five billion views and counting. But it was more than that. Jere sampled their fanmedia and shivered. Housewives yelled at aging NASA scientists, who in turn were razored apart by nineteen-year-old kids with animated tattoos. Engagement was off the scale. There were over one thousand seven hundred sites dedicated to tracking progress on the Mars Enterprise. Time-lapse footage of its orbital construction played on over a hundred million desktops. Proctor and Gamble had started doing Mars-based promotions, even though it wasn’t a sponsor.

If they die, I’m fucked, Jere thought. Forget the Russians. There was no place on earth he could hide. He chuckled, briefly, imagining himself trying to convince the Russians to send him to Mars, because that would be the only place he was safe.

The makeup guy finished his routine and made a half-hearted pass at Jere. He was a good-looking kid, probably not more than twenty. Jere smiled and shook his head. When they took him to the stage, Jere started. It was done in warm reds and inviting earth-tones, and the familiar cityscape had been replaced by a giant mural of Mars from orbit, cast against a background of brilliant stars. The ruddy planet glowed down on the stage, throwing cool shadows.

Before he knew it, they were live and on the air. Jere endured the entrance, the brief intro, and the good-natured ribbing (what, since you Mexicans have taken over LA, you gotta go to Mars next?). Then Leno went serious.

“So, did you know what you were doing?” he asked, leaning forward.

“At what point?”

“When you started this.”

They’d gone over this in rehearsal. This was one of the easy questions, not one of the curveballs that Leno was sure to slip in. Jere was supposed to say, yes, he cared about humanity, yadda yadda, bullshit bullshit.

“No.” Jere said, smiling.

Blink. “Why’d you do it, then.”

Jere felt his grin growing wider. It was completely involuntary. He couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.

“To save my ass,” he said.

Silence for three beats. Jere spoke into it. “I did it because we needed a stunt. Because we needed the money. Neteno was big, and I wanted it bigger.”

Leno’s eyes narrowed, just a fraction.

What the fuck are you doing? Evan’s voice came to Jere, in his earbud. No. Let him. Look at the numbers. Dad’s voice, somewhat in awe. Jere popped the earbud out and dropped it on the floor. “Come on, man,” he told Leno.

“This is Hollywood. We don’t do shit to save the planet, to better humanity, to preserve the endangered wild dingo. We do things because it gets us attention. You know how many celebs I know who have orgs bid on the causes they back? You know how many good interactives and linears get killed because the numbers don’t come up right, or the 411 assholes say there’s too much legal liability?”

“That’s certainly an interesting perspective,” Leno said.

“It’s truth. It’s the way the world works,” Jere said.

“But a funny thing happened on the way to the money,” Leno said, nodding. “You discovered that you really believed in this cause, and you’d do anything for it.”

“Nope. Winning Mars is like an old car. Cheap to buy, then a money pit. We got in too deep. There’s no going back. I hope we can fix up this car, sell it, and make a profit. But we might not.”

Leno sat, mouth open. “But . . . you mortgaged everything, you fought Oversight!”

Jere looked at the camera and shrugged. “What can I say? I’m an idiot.”

Leno tried to bait him in with some little jabs, but the interview was effectively over. When he brought in the surprise guests, an Oversight wonk and a science-fiction author, the audience barely even noticed.

On the way home, Jere almost half-expected to see the netbuzz angst mimicked in the macrovision, huge dripping red snipes announcing WINNING MARS CREATOR ADMITS

BEING A MONEY-GRUBBING ASSHOLE, but the banners spun on unperturbed. In his eyepod, arguments went peaky and violent, boosting engagement above the path defined by Kase. Slowly, consensus emerged. It doesn’t matter what his motives were, they said. Itdoesn’t matter everything they did except for this was fake, they said. We don’t believe hedoesn’t believe, they said.

Evan yelled at him. Ron called him a genius.

Jere smiled.

Team

Geoff Smith watched the three-way conversation, like some mutant form of tennis.

“If we take him, we get extra time?” Wende Kirshoff said.

“Yes,” the Neteno program coordinator said. He was a thin little man who looked very tired, and very ready to be done with the training program.

“Do we have to use it?” Laci Thorens said.

“It’s supposed to provide a window for Mr. Smith to run the experiments package,” the Neteno wonk said.

“But do we have to use it?”

“It will take you some time to assemble your Wheel, in any case.”

“But,” Laci said, speaking very slowly and clearly, as if to someone very slow on the uptake, “Do we have to use it?”

Neteno wonk closed his mouth, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his eyes. Say something, Geoff thought. This is you they’re talking about! You’re going to be theone who finds life on Mars, and they’re trying to talk Neteno out of the time you need to do it!

But he had no picket to carry, no posts to make, no voice to speak. He was tired, and sore, and almost ready to tell them all to piss up a rope.

But you do that, you don’t go, he thought. Neteno made that real clear. He couldn’t be a team of one. He’d failed that physical. All the other teams were gelled. The only way he would be part of Winning Mars was if the lesbians took him.

Laci turned to Wende. Sitting together, the two tall, athletic blondes looked alike enough to be bookends. “We don’t have to use it,” Laci said.

The Neteno wonk said nothing.

“Wait a minute!” Geoff said.

Three heads swiveled to look at him. He shivered. He felt like a specimen on a glass slide.

“I . . . I have to do the experiments,” Geoff said.

Still looking.

“I mean . . . I’ll go as fast as I can, but I have to do the experiments. Or else IBM will get pissed.”

Neteno wonk looked surprised. “True. We have a successful-completion clause in every sponsor’s contract.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t think Neteno would be happy if you actively interfered with Mr. Smith’s experiments.”

Laci frowned. “But it’s not like you can enforce it!”

“I believe it could be considered contract breach.”

“Fuck. We can yell at him, can’t we?”

“Verbal abuse we can’t police. Remember, though, you’ll be on camera, and taking direction from the team leader.”

“So?”

Neteno’s wonk shrugged and sat back.

“What do you think?” Laci asked.

Wende looked at Geoff. Her green eyes were cool and unreadable. But she didn’t frown. Geoff tried to smile back at her. It felt mechanical and forced, but he was rewarded with a twitch of her lips.

“Sure,” Wende said. “Why not?”

Launch

Russian summer was the same as Russian winter, except the black ice had been replaced by mud. Depressingly familiar to Jere, now. As was the grin of Valentin Ladenko. Who drove a new Mercedes S-class, this one hydrogen, as if change for the sake of change was all that mattered.

It was an entire caravan this time, reporters and pundits and hangers-on, all loudly complaining about the facilities. The small town of Baikonur was overwhelmed by the visitors. The space hotels had long since filled. Reporters were sleeping in taverns, in houses, in barns, in the street, maybe with the goats. NO FOOD signs hung from many of the restaurants and bars.

“Should they pay us extra for the tourism, Valley?” Evan said, watching a gas station gleefully quintuple its price.

“Leninsk,” Valentin said.

“It won’t last,” Jere said.

“Sure it will,” Evan said. “There are enough bored reporters around here to crank out fifty thousand local-interest pieces. And people will travel anywhere. They don’t care what a craphole it is.”

And maybe that was true, Jere thought. Public support for Winning Mars had risen to an insane pitch following his Tonightshow routine. The peak of the Gaussian consensus showed Jere as a reluctant visionary, too modest to express the depth of his conviction. People believe what they want to believe, Ron had said. Then it was launch day, and Jere didn’t know how to feel. Except for the one SpaceX

flight in the distance on that first day, he’d never seen a launch. He’d always been on them. Now, he would get to see one up close.

So if it exploded, he could see the charred bodies falling from the fireball. He’d seen that in his dreams, over and over. Even though it was just a standard flight, just another LEO shot for RusSpace, done it hundreds of times, no problem.

If the whole thing went up in smoke, public opinion would snap, like a great steel beam strained to breaking. His brilliance and selflessness would become a cold-blooded publicity stunt. They’d howl for blood. He would be crucified. If he was lucky. All because the public wasn’t fed, he thought. Because they didn’t get their daily dose of excitement.

A-muse-ment, Ron called it. Non-thinking. To muse is to think, and to A-muse was not to think. Which is what most people wanted. Give them a roof and food and someone to fuck, let them buy a few shiny things from time to time, and all they really cared about was filling the gaping void of their lives. They didn’t want to muse. They wanted to A-muse. And God help the person who promised amusement, but didn’t come through. That would be the real outrage if Mars Enterprise blew up on the ground. The RusSpace orbital shuttle looked larger and dirtier than he remembered it. The Can waited patiently in orbit, but without these dozen people, it was nothing. They should have probably sent up the teams separately, and Frank on his own flight, but that wouldn’t have met the timeline, and the budget was again strained to the breaking point. Even the government money had gone fast when the Russians bills came due.

The most expensive amusement ever created, Jere thought. Add that to the record books. They’d blown their initial budget by almost eight times. He wondered again how Evan could have proposed the initial number with a straight face. Had he ever really believed it?

The ride to the launchpad was short. The crowd outside the gates parted for them as they drove to the official grandstand and made their way to the little box at the top. Ron collapsed in his seat with a grunt. Jere and Evan piled in as well. They were sitting on campchairs that looked like they could have come from a Napoleonic campaign. Perhaps they had.

“Crunch time,” Evan said softly.

“Yes,” Ron said.

“All or nothing,” he rubbed his hands. “Anyone in a betting mood?”

“Shut up,” Ron said, and Evan fell silent.

For once, Jere was glad to have the old man with him. Without Ron, Evan would have woven a web tighter and tighter, until he alone controlled the relationships with the sponsors and the Russians and even the public. Jere knew that now. But Ron has stepped in and helped even it out. Evan still held too many pursestrings, and was hiding a lot of money, but they could deal with that later.

Ahead of them, the ship towered over the bleak landscape, like the last hope of man after a nuclear war. Gleaming steel and clouds of vapor, a high-tech needle aimed at the deep blue sky.

One minute. The few people on the field scampered to cover.

Ten seconds.

Jere held his breath as the numbers flickered down on the big board. There was an explosion of light and a mind-numbing roar. The plexiglas windows of the little booth jittered and shook.

Jere held up a hand to shield his eyes. Thinking, It’s exploded, it’s all over, it’s done, I’mdone.

But then the cheering of the crowd roused him. He looked at them in disbelief. What were they cheering for? Were they crazy? Did the fucking Russians actually want to see blood?

Then his father pointed and shouted, “Look!”

The needle was rising into the sky.

Slowly at first, then faster. It was a hundred feet up. Two hundred. Then as tall as a skyscraper, balancing on a long white tail of flame. The wind battered the grandstand and beat at the throngs, standing hundreds deep. The smell of burnt mud and concrete worked its way into the shelter. Sand and dust and grit pattered against the plexiglas. My God, Jere thought, as the needle rose higher. Its flame no longer touched the earth. It gathered speed like a jet, shrinking smaller and faster as it rose up and arced out. Eventually, the roar reduced itself to a shout, then a mild grumbling. The Mars Enterprise was a bright speck in the sky, like a magnesium flare. Everybody still cheered. Reporters looked around themselves, dazed and blinking. They’d done it.

“Congratulations,” Ron said, when they were finally able to tear their eyes away from the pinprick.

“For what?” Jere said. He was numb. He didn’t know how to feel. His dad looked up at the sky again, and broke into a huge grin. “You’ve done something that no government has ever been able to do.”

“But . . . it wasn’t . . . it was just a . . .”

Ron held up a hand. “Shh,” he said.

Touch

Glenn Rothman grimaced as the shuttle pushed him back into his hard-backed seat. Beside him, Alena moaned softly. He could smell her sweat, not clean workout-sweat, but rank and sour fear-sweat.

He looked over at her, fighting to keep his neck from snapping to the side. She had her eyes closed shut, tight, her eyelids folded into little piles of wrinkles. Of course, Glenn thought. She can’t control this. She can’t even pretend to try. He reached out with his hand. It felt like there was a fifty-pound weight hung from his fingertips. He tried to lay it on her hand softly, but it came down harder than he would have liked.

Her hand turned under his, and gripped his briefly. Then her eyes flew open and she snatched her hand away.

“Alena,” Glenn said.

“Don’t do that,” she said, yelling over the roar of the rockets. “Don’t ever do that.”

THREE: SHOW

Vacation

Mike Kinsson brought an iStuff filled with over a hundred terabytes of books, linears, music, and interactives onboard Mars Enterprise, but he didn’t bother picking it up for over a week. It was enough to float from the aluminum handrail and look back through the rearmost porthole of the Can, where Earth shrank slowly in the distance. I don’t believe it, he thought. It was an unending loop, played over and over in his mind. At times he felt almost numb, as if he had been hollowed out and stuffed with those little cellulose packing peanuts. Then he’d look back at the earth, and think, Holy shit.Only astronauts have seen this, Mike thought. The earth was only about the size of his fist at the end of his outstretched arm. He shivered.

“I’m really doing this,” he said, softly, almost too soft to hear above the gurgle and wheeze of the Can’s systems. “I’m really going away.”

“What?” A voice, behind him.

Mike whirled. Juelie floated slowly past him in mid-air, reaching to catch the Can’s rearmost rail. Mike looked forward, but nobody else was in the main cabin. Most likely in the bunkroom, or the kitchen, or the cramped little exercise-space. All the fitness nuts had gone crazy when they hit zero-g and their bodies puffed up and started doing weird things. They spent most of their time in the exercise-space. It already stank like a junior high school locker room. Mike wondered briefly what it would smell like when they returned, almost a year from now.

“What were you talking about?” Juelie said. Her pretty gray-blue eyes zigged across his face, as if mapping it.

“Nothing,” Mike said.”

Juelie nodded and leaned close to him, pressing her face against the side of the cabin so she could look out the little porthole. Mike drew away from her, then cursed himself for doing so.

“It’s getting smaller,” she said.

“Yes.”

Juelie closed her eyes, her face still pressed against the cold metal. When she finally opened them, tears shimmered in them.

“I’m scared,” she said.

Mike opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get home!”

“It’s okay,” Mike said. “It’ll be okay.”

“I want to go back!”

But you can’t. You can’t step off and take a taxi. You’re stuck here, whether you like it or not.

Mike reached out and put his hand on hers. “It’ll be all right. It really will.”

Juelie twisted away from the wall and put her arms around him. Her body shook, wracked by sobs. She made almost no sound, except a low, stuttery intake of breath. After a few moments, Mike put his arms around her.

“He doesn’t care!” she said.

“Who?”

“Sam! Fucker! He doesn’t care! Says I’m being a baby.”

I’m sorry, Mike wanted to say. “We’ll make it,” he said. Juelie pushed away and held him at arms’ length. Her eyes jittered across his face again, as if searching for something they couldn’t quite find.

“I’ll help you,” Mike said.

“I—”

There was a bang from the front of the cabin. Juelie pushed Mike away. Mike turned to see Frank Sellers, swinging from the foremost rail in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner. A toolkit floated beside him.

“Sorry,” Frank said. Petrov Machenko followed him in. He was a big, chubby Russian guy who was the second in command/production assistant/general do-all kinda guy, from what Mike could figure. They’d never been introduced. Frank and Petrov had been chasing down various bugs in the Can since launch, and only in the last couple of days did they seem less wildeyed. Frank thumbed his throatmike. “Okay, everyone,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly throughout the Can. “General assembly in main cabin. Put down what you’re doing, pause your games, and get here on the double.”

“What’s going on?” Mike asked.

“Are we going back?” Juelie said.

“You’ll see, and no,” Frank said, his gaze landing on each of them in turn. The other contestants filtered in by ones and twos, until all thirteen of them were in the main cabin. Most went to the walls, but Glenn and Alena Rothman hung in midair, almost motionless. They were still dressed in the plain gray Nike workout gear, bearing huge sweatstains at their necklines and underarms. Showoffs, Mike thought.

“We’ve been too busy for formalities, but now it’s time to start the show,” Frank said. He opened the toolbox and withdrew three bottles of Cristal champagne, holding them like a bunch of flowers in one ham-like hand.

“All right!” Keith Paul, squirting forward from his empty wall. Frank pulled his bouquet of bottles away from Keith’s outstretched hands at the last moment, and the man went hands-first into the opposite wall. He cried off, rebounded, and thrashed in midair, looking for a handgrip. A couple of the contestants laughed, but quickly stifled their grins when Keith turned to see who was laughing. The laughs came back when Petrov pulled a big bottle of vodka out from behind his back, and held it forth in imitation of Frank.

“Hey!” Frank said. “Where’d you get that?”

Petrov grinned. “Emergency fuel,” he said.

More laughter. Frank’s brow furrowed for a moment, then he shook his head, as if deciding consciously to relax. “Okay, okay. I won’t ask.”

He turned to address everyone. “Before we par-tay, though, I need to go over a few things with the group.”

“Like what?” Keith said, still flailing.

“Good question,” Frank said. “First and foremost, let me get this right out. We’re going to be in this can for almost a year. A year, people. Three hundred and sixty five days, twenty-four seven. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t spend that kind of time with my wife in ten years. We’re going to get mighty sick and tired of each other. Like, as in, smelling someone’s fart — and you’ll know whose it is — will set you right off, and you’re gonna want to rip their heads off.

“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Alena said.

A nod. “Navy. Close enough. What you need to do, if that happens, is just get away, far as you can. Go watch your movies again. Check the tomatoes. Look out a port and dream about your wonderful life when you get back. Just get away from the person.”

Silence.

“Secondly, I don’t give a fuck what you do while you’re on this ship. I’m not here to be your mommy. Nor is Petrov.”

Petrov nodded, his teeth on the cap of one of the bottles of vodka. “What we are is judge and jury of this whole mess. Look it up in your contract. You’ve agreed to abide by our decisions. They’re legally binding. So if we say you get chained in a bathroom the rest of the trip cause you can’t behave, that’s what happens.”

Silence and wide eyes. Keith’s voice broke it. “You’d have to make me.”

“We will,” Frank said, not looking at him.

“Point is, don’t go whining to your lawyer cause we tell you what to do. There’s bound to be problems on a trip this long, so if we say jump, you say, ‘how high?’”

Some nods.

Frank smiled. “Good. We’re all getting it. One final thing. Smile and wave. You’re on camera.”

Silence again. Mike found his voice. “What do you mean?”

Frank pointed towards the ceiling, where a little black nubbin sprouted. “Since the beginning of the trip, the show’s been running. I’m told the ratings are pretty shit so far, but I’m sure they’ll pick up when we’re on Mars.”

“We’re on camera?” Juelie said.

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“You got it.”

“In the bathroom?” Juelie wrinkled her face in disgust.

“No. Even Neteno ain’t that twisted. But almost everywhere else—”

“Even when we’re eating?” Juelie said, looking almost as disgusted as when she was asking about the bathroom.

Mike tried to hold back a grin. There was laughter throughout the room, and Juelie went red. That made everyone laugh even more.

“What if I don’t want to be on camera?” Keith said.

“Then you better take a step out the airlock, because that’s the only place —” Frank looked thoughtful. “Wait, actually, there’s cameras out there, too.”

More laughter.

Frank grinned like a proud grandparent. “Okay. Now you know how it goes. They’ll take the interesting bits, splice them together, and feed it to all the retards watching. If you don’t want to be on, better be boring.”

“Why can’t we get the show?” Geoff asked.

“Well, other than our piss-poor data connection, they’ve blocked it. I suppose one of our genius hackers—” looking at Nandir “—could probably figure how to get past that, but we still might be looking at hours of download.”

Frank sighed. “Okay, enough of this crap. You’re on a TV show, you’re gonna be filmed. Get over it. Let’s get this party started!”

Frank stripped the foil off one of the bottles of champagne and popped the cork. The champagne fountained out into the cabin. It coalesced rapidly into bubble-filled globes.

“Ah, shit,” Frank said. “Shoulda thought of that.”

Keith twisted to catch one of the globes in his mouth. He sucked it down and belched. Everyone laughed. Then the room was full of floating bodies, chasing champagne balls. Juelie sailed past Mike, her face smiling and radiant.

Mike held back. Frank opened a second bottle of champagne and sprayed the crowd. Petrov sat with a bottle of vodka, sharing direct hits off it with Keith and Alena. After a while, Nandir came to float by Mike. “You don’t drink?” he said.

“Not now,” Mike said. Juelie and Sam were whirling in midair, as if dancing. She grinned and laughed.

“I agree,” Nandir said.

“With what?”

“Not drinking now.”

Mike turned to look back at the earth. It was smaller. He was, slowly but surely, moving away. Moving out.

If only I could stay here, he thought.

“What have you been looking at?” Nandir said.

“Earth,” Mike said, not turning.

Nandir craned his neck. “It’s getting small.”

Mike was silent for a long time, until his curiosity took him by the neck. “Don’t you think it’s strange?” he asked Nandir. “Leaving earth? We’re the only ones who have ever seen this, except a few astronauts.”

“And automated probes.”

“Yeah. But what does it feel like? What does it feel like, to you?”

“It feels like being stuck in a very small condominium,” Nandir said.

“That’s all?”

“I am grateful for all the time to work on my software.”

“No sense of wonder? Nothing?”

Nandir shrugged. “Things change. This is just another one of them.”

Mike shook his head. Nobody understood. Not like him.

Juelie ended up sitting beside Petrov and the others, drinking directly out of the third bottle of vodka he’d managed to produce. She waved at him. Mike waved back. Eventually, she came over to him.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Everything.

“Come have a drink.”

“I don’t drink.”

A wrinkled nose. “Stop looking!”

“At what?”

“Earth!”

Mike sighed. “I can’t.”

Juelie looked at him a moment longer, then pushed off and went back to the group. She ended up drinking for a long time, after Mike had left the room and went to his hammock. He laid awake for a long time. After a while, Juelie and Sam came in and shared her hammock. Mike tried to ignore her soft cries. Mike tried not to look at them in the dim blue light. He ended up looking down at Keith.

Keith’s eyes were open, and he was grinning.

“Friend zone, he’s in the friend zone,” Keith sang, softly, aping some song that was almost familiar.

Mike turned away and looked at the wall. Eventually, he slept. Boomerang

Patrice’s last gig made her hot, but Jere was hotter than the sun. She didn’t know how to feel about that yet. Sometimes she felt angry, her stomach clenched in a tight little ball. Sometimes she felt hollow, as if there was nothing inside her. And sometimes she didn’t know how to feel at all.

The producers shouldn’t be the stars, she thought, watching the discreet little coverglass that hid behind her sunglasses. She’d never wear an eyepod, but these weren’t too bad. They’d be even better if she was on the white, at the top page of the entertainment nets. But the white was all about Jere and Mars, Jere and the trip, clips of the dumbass contestants on the ship, most of which acted like they didn’t even know the cameras were on them, acted like you saw in closet porno tapes from the previous century. They didn’t know you had to act like you were always being watched. They didn’t’ know it was always a show. But they still had the fucking popularity. Even when Patrice shifted to swarmview, her image was buried in the back, small and dim under the brilliance of Winning Mars. You shouldn’t have teased him, she thought. For about the millionth time. He would’velet you stay on the show.

It didn’t matter. She’d show them. Take the sequel, add a hot actor, and it would be even hotter. It’d go past hot. It’d create a whole new level of hot, above the white, beyond the forefront. Swarmview would TV her face, the only thing for anyone to see. Everybody else would be ghosts in the background.

Her finder told her Jere was with the asshole, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care it was lunch, either. She walked into the Golden Dome, the snootiest restaurant on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, and walked right past the Maitre’d. Who, to his credit, only glanced at her for a moment before his eyes flashed in recognition.

That’s right, she thought. Look past fucking Jere for once. I’m up there, too. Deep in the back of the restaurant, hidden in the shadows behind suspiciously healthy ferns, Jere and Evan huddled in a booth. A privacy shield glowed blue in the center of the table. From time to time, there was the flash of a flyeye as it flamed out against the shield. Their conversation sounded like Swahili gargled through Scope.

Jere had that look he got when he thought things were going so well, he needed to look for the cliff. Edges of his mouth upturned in a faint smile, eyes squinted as if preparing for a blow. Patrice shook her head. Jere was one of those people who just couldn’t let go and relax. He couldn’t enjoy what he had. If things were bad, that was the natural order. Sell sell sell, cut cut cut. If things were good, then bad must be right around the corner. Hold spending, don’t count your chickens, blah blah blah. Patrice frowned. If there was one thing she could change about him, that would be it.

Jere looked up and saw her. His eyes went wide, then flickered to Evan. Evan swiveled his dark little eyes to set on her, and compressed his lips into a frown. Jere called out to her. Through the privacy shield, it sounded like a yodel crossed with a toilet flushing. She held her hands to her ears and pointed at the shield. Jere slapped it off, and stood. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Evan and I were—”

“Talking business, yes I know.”

“How’s it going, Miss Klein?” Evan said.

“Just fine,” Patrice said, not looking at him.

Jere stumbled out from behind the booth and hugged her. She kissed him, briefly, on the lips. Sudden emotion surged within her. He felt so familiar, so comfortable, so right! He smelled like Jere. Patrice fought the urge to press herself against him, look up and smile and sigh.

“It’s been too long,” Jere said.

“I messaged you.”

A nod. “I know, I know. I’ve just been buried, like literally buried, I was going to get back to you . . .”

“It’s all right.”

Jere sighed. “How was your show?”

“It’s a little behind Winning Mars.” Or a lot.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Jere looked so honestly embarrassed, Patrice couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t apologize. You’ve earned it.”

“But you . . . I wish you could have been . . .”

On the show. Patrice nodded. So did she. Nobody would even look at the other contestants.

A brief throat-clearing from Evan.

“Look, do you want to catch dinner tonight—” Jere said.

“No.”

“No?”

“Not unless we’re going to talk about how I’m on the next show.”

Jere blinked. “The next show?”

“Yeah. Winning Mars 2. Winning Jupiter. What do I care? Whatever it is, I want on it.”

Evan laughed. “You’d have a hard time Winning Jupiter.”

“We . . . we . . .” Jere glanced at the privacy screen, as if wishing he could turn it on again.

“Okay,” he said, finally. “We’ll talk.”

“Wait a minute!” Evan said.

Jere turned, pointed a finger. “Shut up,” he said. He turned back to Patrice. “I’ll pick you up. Same condo?”

She nodded. “See you there.”

As Patrice walked away, she heard Evan, deliberately loud: “Why do you spend time with her? You’re white-hot.”

Then Jere: “Heat never lasts,” he said. Then the hum and gurgle of the privacy screen. Patrice smiled. If nothing else, Jere was predictable.

Fitness

“Alena, stop!” Glenn Rothman said, as he followed Alena down the short hall from the exercise room to the main cabin. He reached out and grabbed her arm. It was still slick with sweat, and she twisted away effortlessly. She caught the handrail, whipped around to face him, and punched him, hard, in the stomach.

Glenn doubled over, his breath going out of him with a big “Whoo!” He felt himself rebound from the opposite wall, and scrabbled for the handrail. He tried to pull in air, but it was like breathing through a soda straw. He opened his mouth and pulled, hard. A tiny bit of air slipped into his lungs.

“You see!” Alena said. “I’m getting weak. So are you. Look at you, trying to catch your breath!”

Glenn pulled a little more air into his lungs. “Don’t . . .” Breath. “Seem . . .” Breath.

“Weak . . .” He reached out for her.

“Don’t touch me,” she said, batting his hand away. She rolled up the short sleeve of her exercise outfit and flexed her arm muscle. She pulled at it, pinching and stretching the skin. “I’m getting flabby. I work and work, but I’m getting flabby.”

“Muscle loss is to be expected,” Frank said, sticking his head into the corridor.

“It is? It is? How the hell are we supposed to do the cliff thing?”

Frank chuckled. “You should’ve read your contracts. Permanent bone loss, muscle loss, et cetera, I think we covered it all?”

“You did?” Alena said. She turned to Glenn. “Why didn’t you see that?”

“I . . . did,” Glenn said. His breath came a little easier now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

Alena pulled herself close to the wall and closed her eyes. Glenn wanted to go over and comfort her, but he knew he’d just be thrown off. And she was right. He should have told her. She wouldn’t have read down to page thirty-one, article one hundred fifty six. She wouldn’t have read the bits after that, either, the ones that said they probably wouldn’t want to have children after this, at least if they didn’t want them to look like Kermit the Frog. Or the piece that outlined their increased risk of cancer over the course of their lifetimes. She wouldn’t have read any of that.

He remembered the first time they did Everest. No oxygen, of course. It was a hell of a thing, a perk for winning the ‘17 X-Games, one of those group things where they’d send up cameras and cull it for a show later on. A hell of an opportunity. All for free. She’d signed the contract without looking at it. Glenn had done the same. Of course he would go with her. He loved her. They’d be married, and they’d spend the rest of their life together. That was the only way things could go.

On the third day of the ascent, white-out conditions drove them into their tents early. Glenn sighed and lay down with Alena, waiting for the burn in his muscles to subside. But it didn’t. If anything, it got hotter. Alena rubbed her calves and arms, too. Glenn asked her what was wrong, but she said, quietly, Nothing. In the morning, in the clear ice air, they discovered the reason. Their guide, a burly white guy who hid behind a full face-mask most of the time, just laughed. Everyone gets that, he said. Muscles, hurtin for oxy. Crying out. Saying, you should becarrying a tank.

Alena looked panicked, and asked if it would hurt her.

Not permanently, the guide said. May even make you stronger, in the long run. Mind,that’s another thing. Some people say you’re dumber after you come down off Everest. Braincells crying for oxy, too. That’s why it’s so hard to think.But physically we’re ok? Alena said.

And, with a nod, that was that. They set off again.

Bad weather kept them from seeing the summit. Glenn had to drag Alena back when their guide said it was time to call it quits. Eventually, she’d looked towards the invisible summit, and said, in a voice low and determined, We’ll be back.

“Don’t know about the climb, anyway,” Frank said, bringing Glenn back to the present.

“What does that mean?” Alena said.

“You may not even make it.”

“We’ll make it!”

“No. You’re not getting me. You might not make it to the cliff. All the routes are guesswork and bullshit, based on photos from orbit. We know there’s a mile-high vertical cliff there. We think we can land you near enough so you can do the climb. But if we can’t, you get another route.”

“We don’t want another route!”

“If you’re gonna splat face-first into a boulder the size of a house, you want another route.”

“We’ll take the chance!”

Frank shook his head. “When we get closer, we’ll decide.”

“But . . .”

“Alena,” Glenn said.

“Shut up! Shut up! We may be losing our chance at the ridge!”

“We’ll do everything we can to get you there,” Frank said. “Trust me.”

Alena looked from Glenn to Frank and back again. Then her face turned down into a deep frown. “What about me? What about my muscles?”

“You can work out more,” Frank said. “That does slow the effects somewhat.”

“Aren’t their drugs?”

“Drugs?” Glenn said. Alena must be really desperate.

Really scared.

She turned to him. “Yes, drugs.”

Frank shook his head. “Nope. Not like there was a big call for it, before this mission.”

“There’s nothing?” Alena said, her voice rising into a wail.

“No pills.”

“But exercise works.”

“A little.”

Alena clamped her mouth shut and nodded. She turned and went back to the exercise room. Glenn followed her, as she loaded the inertial machine with fifty kilos more than she usually did.

“What are you doing?” Glenn said.

“Trying to stay in shape.”

“You already spend more time in here than anyone else!”

Alena stopped. Looked at him. “I don’t care if I’m in here twenty-four-seven.”

Glenn sighed and turned away.

“You shouldn’t, either,” Alena said. “At least, if you want to keep up with me.”

Glenn stopped, still turned away. What she was doing was crazy. They still had four months left. She’d kill herself.

After a moment, he turned and went to set up his own inertial machine. He smiled at Alena, but she didn’t look at him. She was already in the routine, legs pumping, arms pulling, eyes straight forward, seeing nothing.

Earthbound

Jere hated Costa Rica. He hated the overpolite waiters and the too-cheerful windsurfing instructors and the always-hawking glass-bottom-boat guys. He hated the perfect cheerful weather, with fluffy white clouds like sheep hanging in the deep blue sky, above the turquoise water that looked like something on a monitor with the saturation turned up way too high. And he hated sitting around on the beach, holding and drink and laying in the sun and otherwise doing nothing, his eyepod tucked away for the evening, just for the time it took Patrice to get them ready for dinner. An hour or so, if he was lucky. It wasn’t enough to even go through the summaries of Neteno’s activity, swarmrating, inperson presence, financial status, continuous micropayment flow. But he did it, and he made himself smile whenever he took the eyepod off again.

Because it was good being with Patrice again. A couple of weeks out of the months of waiting for the big show on Mars wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it’d help dispel the dream he kept having, the one where the Can dropped straight to Mars and went splat. Just a brief flare from orbital cameras, then nothing. Like that ancient NASA probe Evan’d told him about, the one where they got the calculations wrong.

And they’d had government backing, probably money falling out of their ass, redundant systems, backups on their backups. They had a bunch of fucking crazy Russians and sponsors they were still figuring out where they’d decided to cut cost. He wished Evan wouldn’t tell him about all that shit. Apollo 13, the fucking Mars probes, the crazy Russians, SpaceX’s first launch, the Shuttle, all that stuff. But still he smiled. Because Patrice was fun, and he liked teasing her about their next show. Taking the Moon, featuring armed actors going after the Chinese. Or maybe Winning Gold, featuring a hunt for a mythical solid gold asteroid. Or Protecting Earth, if they could lob an asteroid at it. Or Kissing Venus, if they could figure out that one crazy kid’s cloudsurfing idea. Of course all of them were bullshit. There were no plans for a second show. But it was good to have Patrice around.

Because he’d seen the spike. In that great new trend-plotting software the Dick gave him, something like a sleeping bear stirred and sat up when Patrice walked into the restaurant. People started talking. He told her to stay off the show because it was dangerous, because heloved her, they said. Active tune-in to his current state went off the charts. And while they whispered behind their privacy screen, people began to speculate: what’s the next show? What does Patrice have to do with it? What an amazing woman!

Jere was hot. With Patrice, he was hot with staying power. He could see the tail of their popularity, stretching out for months in the software. She boosted his swarminess, his stayingpower, everything. Together, the most pessimistic tail didn’t drop off till after the show. And the cult networks had started counterpointing Jere and Patrice’s romance with the buzz around Winning Mars. Viewer engagement for the romantic bits, culled from flyeyes and patched together by open-source storygenerators or bored kids on the net, was even higher than Winning Mars.

It’s the old stories, the old stories that fucking sell.

Jere sighed and shook his head. But without Mars, our story wouldn’t have the profileto go white-hot.

And, it was probably natural people would turn to them for a while. The trip out to Mars was long and boring. The editors complained every day that there was little to work with, and bitched even more mightily when Jere told them, no, they wouldn’t have Frank and Petrov stir the pot, no, they weren’t going to use any of Evan’s ideas.

And the world had flared again, as it always had, with the Muslims in France threatening to nuke Paris again, and some fucking disease-for-profit asshole releasing his shit in Nebraska. Neteno had done well with those, because suddenly they were credible again, suddenly people would believe anything, and 411 shut the fuck up, and the sponsors lined up like they used to. That was good. Getting the company back on track, getting his life back on track. A little voice, way in the back of Jere’s mind: You’re using her. But it wasn’t like that. He liked having Patrice around. He wasn’t using her. What’s next, will you sell sponsorships for your own romance?

Jere smiled, imagining personal products strategically placed on their nightstand and in their bathroom. Perhaps some recognizable designer swimsuits. Water-bottles, of course, they could carry those everywhere and hold the labels out, just so. Where they dined, if it was a chain. He could make a lot of money on it.

But he wouldn’t do it. No way.

Because then he’d have to look at himself in the mirror. And he didn’t want to see Evan’s eyes staring back at him.

Education

Keith was deep in an interactive, thinking of the lesbians. Which made sense. In the interactive, he was walking in on two sisters writhing on Mommy and Daddy’s bed. He was supposed to be a plumber or something. The VR deck wasn’t much good without the dick-sleeve and the little stick-sensors, but it beat whacking it in the bathroom with his eyes closed. Laci and Wende, he thought, as he rounded the corner on the two sisters, and they looked up at him, gasping. But smiling too, like they wanted it, like maybe being lesbians wasn’t the best thing on the planet.

Or off. Though the lesbians here hadn’t given him much of a show. Wiggling a bit under the blankets, way after lights out. A couple of moans. Not a whole lot to get excited about. Keith bet he could make them moan.

One of the girls got up off the bed. She was perfect, slim, big tits, not sagging at all. Keith smiled and moved his POV forward.

His POV dissolved in a mess of blocks. The sound stuttered and jumped.

“No! Shit! Not now!” Keith growled, hearing his own voice over his earbuds. He shook the deck, but the picture didn’t come back. Instead, an angry red screen displayed some text below the international fuck-you icon, the exclamation point in the yellow triangle. Keith pushed the reset button, but the red screen stayed lit. He’d just have to unplug it for a while.

“Shit,” he said, stripping off the goggles and pulling out his earplugs.

“What’s wrong?” a voice said, beneath him.

Keith jumped. He’d thought he was alone in the bunkroom. Or else he wouldn’ta been pulling his dick. What kinda fag would be laying there watching? He looked over the side of his hammock. It was Glenn, the fucking action-sports asshole. Sweat ringed his workout gear, and his muscles stood out hard under his skin. So probably just back from the workout room, where he seemed to spend all his time with that chick that hated him. Dumbass.

“What’s wrong with you?” Keith asked.

Glenn looked genuinely surprised. “What do you mean?”

I mean, you walked in while I was pulling my dick. You mean you missed that?

But, Keith realized, it was entirely possible Glenn had missed it. The fucker stumbled around like a goddamned zombie, too zonked from working out all the time to do anything else. Keith knew he was getting a little flabby, but those two assholes took it way too far.

“Deck,” Keith said. “Fuckin thing redscreened.”

“Ah,” Glenn said.

“Yours workin okay?”

“My what?”

“Your deck.” Dumbass.

“I didn’t bring one.”

Keith snorted. Of course. Crazy fucker.

Keith pushed off the bed, down the hall. Nothin to do but wait for the deck to come back to life. He went to the exercise room, watched the wiry Alena chick go at it on the inertials for a while. She raised sweat-matted hair and glared at him. Keith smiled back.

“What . . . you looking at?”

“You,” he said.

Another glare, then she dropped her head and went back into it. She almost didn’t look human. She’d lost weight during the three months out, and thick muscles corded her arms and legs. Beneath her short top, he could see ribs.

It would be like fucking a skeleton.

Keith watched her a while longer, just to annoy her. He waited until she looked up again. Then he went down the hall. Most everyone was in the common room, stuck behind a wall of eyepods or earbuds or eating like robots. Because it was a fucking boring trip. Nothing to do, except run the same linears and interactives over and over. And think about the lesbians. They were out of sight, which might mean they were in the pilot’s cabin with Frank. Keith wondered what they did in there. And if Frank watched.

Back through the hall. It was almost an unconscious thing. The pacing. Nothing to do. Back and forth. Nothing to do. Back and forth. Keith felt rage building. Three more goddamn months. Then six months back. He tried to think of the money going into his account, automatically, every day. He tried to think of winning the thirty mil. But even that seemed pale and faraway.

But I will win it, he thought.

BFD, another voice said, as if he was having a conversation with himself. It’s three months till you win, then six months till you can go spend any of it. Like a whole fucking life. I could pay the lesbians to suck my dick all the way home.Doubt that, the voice said.

Besides, he’d still be here. Keith shook his head and paced.

Low singing from the hydroponics room made him stop and look. Inside, the Mexicanfucker was busy farting around with the tomatoes. She wore earbuds and was humming along to some dumbass tune. What was her name? Oh yeah, Juelie. She wasn’t a bad-looking chick, like someone out of those girl-next-door videos anyway, a decent ass and a mid-sized rack that looked pretty perky, but of course they all looked pretty perky with no gravity, and a face you wouldn’t have to cover with a bag. The cool geek had a thing for her, but he’d been fucked in the ass by the Mexican, who Juelie would share the sack with from time to time. She was a lot less conscious about keeping covered than the lesbians, especially when she got into it. Keith smiled, remembering dim glimpses of smooth flesh, and her moans, slowly rising in intensity. She looked up and saw Keith. At first, she gave him that blank look, like a deer seen through a telescopic sight. Nothing going on up there, no idea of what would happen next. Then her brows drew down in a deep frown, and she looked back down at her work. Fucking bitch, Keith thought. Anger grabbed his gut with a sharp hand. This time, he didn’t try to push it away. He stepped into the room.

Juelie looked up, her eyes going wide.

“How’s it going?” Keith said.

She pulled earbuds, let them drop. “Nothing,” she said, backing away. Keith smiled. He liked her fear. “Nothing?”

Juelie blinked, shook her head. “I mean, fine, I’m fine. How are you?”

Programmed. Like a fucking computer. “I’d be better if you came back and shared my bunk.”

“What does that mean?” backing away, bumping into the racks of cucumbers, or whatever they were growing back there. Eyes wide under the bright light.

“It means I want to fuck you,” Keith said, moving forward again. He had her stuck in a corner. She looked around frantically and tried to push past him. He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. She pushed at his face, flailing in midair. Her feet tangled in the tomatoes and tore some vines free.

Keith batted them away and pulled her close. She squealed and pointed up at the little black camera-eye above them. But Keith was past caring. Maybe, if he was really bad, they’d send him back. Maybe that was what he really needed to do.

Three more months. Then six more.

He clawed at her clothes. She yelled, but it sounded very far away, like a stereo just turned on.

“Come on,” Keith said. “I just want to kiss you.”

She paused for just a moment and looked at him, to see if he was serious. Keith laughed and tore her blouse open, exposing smooth white bra.

Like you need that in zero-G, he thought.

Something struck Keith from behind. It felt like an eighteen-pound sledge. It knocked him off Juelie, and he went flying through the plants himself. He hit the far wall and turned in time to see Petrov launching at him.

Keith grabbed a rail and lashed out at Petrov. His fist whooshed through air, narrowly missing as Petrov ducked and spun in midair. He was tricky with shit like that. Keith gathered to shoot through the door and into the hall. Frank’s face appeared in the door, and he thought better of it.

Wham! Petrov’s fist hit him again, sending him flying. Keith’s POV spun wildly. He saw Petrov give up his grip on the handhold and launch after him.

Somewhere, far away, a woman was sobbing.

Oh, shit, Keith thought. I did that. He hit the wall, grabbed a handrail, and looked towards the door. Frank hugged Juelie close. Her face was red and streaked with tears. I did that, Keith thought again. The last minutes streamed back at him, like a show on fastforward. He closed his eyes. It was like he was watching someone else entirely.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Wham! Petrov’s fist hit him again, sent him flying. Keith impacted Frank and Juelie. Juelie wailed. Keith wanted to say he was sorry, but Frank flashed teeth like a coyote and shoved her outside.

Petrov came up behind Keith and grabbed him with one hand. Keith turned to see him holding onto a handrail.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Too late for that,” Frank said. He pulled the door closed. It was the first time Keith had ever seen a door closed on the Can. He felt his stomach clench with fear.

“What’re you gonna do with me?” he asked.

Frank gave him a terrible old-man smile and blew out terrible old-man coffee-breath.

“Anything we want,” he said. He raised a fist. It came down. It was nothing like Petrov. But he couldn’t escape.

And, eventually, Petrov took over.

The pain went beyond. Keith heard himself, yelling and crying. He saw the fists come down, again and again. It was like a business. One of them held him against the wall and the other hit.

In the end, they plucked him out of the air and carried him to the door. Before they opened it, Frank leaned close to Keith’s ear.

“Next time you do that, we won’t hit you,” Frank said. “We’ll throw you right out the fucking airlock.”

Keith nodded.

“Big cheers, audience says,” Petrov added.

Three months.

Then six months.

Fuck.

Face

“Ratings are up, anyway,” Evan said.

Jere sighed. Outside his office, the Neteno sign orbited again. That was good. That should make him happy.

Except. Fucking Keith.

“Keith was your idea,” Jere said.

“What?”

“You said, use convicts.”

Evan recrossed his legs and cleared his throat. “If you’re thinking of scapegoating me—”

“No. I’m the face. I’m the one who has to go on.”

“But the ratings—”

“Fuck the ratings!” Jere yelled. He came around from behind his desk to stand over Evan. Evan scooted back as far as he could in the chair. For a moment, his dead eyes almost seemed to show something, something that might have been fear. “If you paid attention to anything besides the raw numbers, you know ratings don’t mean shit. The positive/negative’s flopped from balanced to negative. Demo’s gone to crap, we picked up pervs and lost females. Females who won’t let their SO watch it, now. Ratings’ll drop next day or two. If you really believed all your charts and graphs, you’d know it. If you really wanted to create the next Star Trek, you’d know it!”

Silence.

“Why’d you even bother?” Jere said. “Why’d you come into my office at all? With numbers pulled out of your ass, not believing a damn thing you said? What made you pitch this show at all?”

Evan just shook his head.

“Talk, you showoff fuck!”

Evan opened his mouth. Sighed. Looked up at Jere. “I made it all up,” he said. “Is that what you want to hear?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want to hear! Why’d you do it?”

Silence again. Evan shifted in his seat.

“Why?”

Finally, a direct look. “The answer never changes,” Evan said, softly.

“What does that mean?”

“Once you’ve tasted the power, you’ll do anything to get it back. Even falsify 411 data. Luckily, you didn’t look too close.”

“You could’ve taken us down!”

“We still might. Go down.” Evan smiled, rich and genuine.

Jere goggled. To take a chance like that, to try to build on a foundation of nothing, risking everything . . . how could someone choose to live like that?

“You really did it, didn’t you?” Jere said. “When you signed the personal guarantee, you signed everything over. You weren’t hiding a damn thing. You didn’t have a backup plan.”

Evan nodded. “Now you’re starting to understand.”

Plans

“We have much better data on the routes now, so we have what we think is the final drop plan,” Frank said.

He is much less certain than he asserts, Nandir’s inference software whispered in his earbud.

Nandir nodded. That wasn’t exactly hard to figure out. Still, the software had called it. Even operating without a persistent connection to the global networks, using a relatively limited local database.

They were gathered in the common room for the weekly briefing and beating, as Frank called them. Nandir was able to sleep through most of them. He was the boring one. He’d never tried to put on a squeezesuit and take an unauthorized spacewalk, he’d never groped someone elses’ girlfriend or boyfriend, he’d never even started singing, badly, in Tagalog, as Romeo had done once. He wondered if Romeo was still on antidepressants.

Now, only two weeks before Mars orbit, Nandir was almost annoyed at the interruption. He was close, so close, to getting the inference software above forty percent confidence. And that with the limitations he was working under. When he went home and could use the eyes and ears of the net and a richer database, he might be able to get its score above fifty percent. And, at sixty percent or so, the software started becoming interesting. It changed from a toy to a useful commodity. He could find investors. He could build another company. And make another fortune, this one big enough to step off the treadmill.

But in less than two weeks, he’d have to put on a silly suit and go down and run and jump and fly. So people back on earth could watch him. It seemed incredibly stupid. There was no way he and Romeo would win it. He didn’t even care. He’d be slow and careful and get back when he got back.

He wondered what they’d do if he feigned illness on the day of the drop. Disqualify his team? Romeo wouldn’t be able to do the assembly by himself. Send him anyway? Probably the latter. And probably not worth it. Frank seemed to have a reasonable amount of medical knowledge. He might know if Nandir was faking.

Of course, the irony would be if he actually was sick. Nandir smiled.

“Why the grin?” Romeo asked.

This person is interested in you sexually, his inference software said.

“Never mind,” Nandir said, and nodded forward towards Frank, as if he’d been listening to the speech about how much better their route guesswork was.

“. . . upshot is the drops’ll be staggered over a seven-hour window. “Thorens, Smith, and Kirkschoff are first, to allow time for the IBM experiments package—”

“We’re not all dropping at the same time?” this from Keith Paul, the lowbrow criminal. The speaker identified as Paul is extremely upset, Nandir’s inference software said.

“Where have you been?” Frank said. “Schedules’ve been posted forever. We’re just doing final tweaks.”

Keith set his jaw and dropped his eyes. “How’s that fair?”

“What does that mean?” Frank asked.

“It means, you’ll drop the winners first.”

“No. Do I have to go over this again? The drops are staggered to compensate for the different routes. The Thorens team has additional duties — namely, running the IBM

experiments package — and Patel’s team has the shortest and easiest route.”

Keith just looked down.

The speaker identified as Paul is overcome by joy, and will agree with theinterpretation.

“Of course, this is all still best-guess stuff. The routes may be easier or more difficult than we think. But, hey, you pay your money, you take your choice.”

“We should be doing the same things!” Keith said. “That’d be fair!”

Frank’s lips set in a hard line.

He’s thinking he wouldn’t take the chance with you maybe ripping everyone’s suitsopen, Nandir thought. Now, if his software would just say it!

There has been a fatal exception in module INP66X0FB21, his software said. Nandir cursed. “Reboot,” he said softly.

Rebooting, the software said.

“I’ll bet Nandir doesn’t have a problem dropping last,” Frank said. Nandir looked up. Frank pointed towards him. Nandir noticed how grimy the cuffs of Frank’s long-sleeved shirt was. But everything was like that. Nissin foods and Taco Bell@Home and General Mills wrappers piled in drifts until someone got bored enough to shovel them away. Every handrail was dark with grime. The whole place looked like it needed hosed down. That was an incredibly stupid thing to say, Nandir thought. Because now Keith was looking at him, his eyes hard and bright under his furrowed brow. As if he was calculating something. Something bad.

We’re all getting a little messy ourselves, Nandir thought. Messy in the head. If he hadn’t had his software to work on, how bored would he be now?

“Who cares what the dot thinks?” Keith said. There were a couple of gasps from the other crewmembers.

“What?” Keith said. “I can’t say that? Dot, dot, dot!” He pointed at Nandir. Nandir stifled a smile. It meant nothing to him.

Keith pointed to others. Romeo. “Gook!” Sam. “Mexican!” Petrov. “Commie! I bet I can’t say those, either! What do you think! I’ll say them if I want! Give everyone a show! Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke!”

Frank nodded at Petrov, and the big man launched towards Keith. Keith’s eyes went wide, and he cowered against the wall. Then, at the last instant, he launched out of the room and down the hall. Petrov tried to grab him and almost snagged a cuff. Petrov swore in Russian and squirted out of the room. Down the hall, they heard a crash and the smack of fists.

“Sorry about that,” Frank said, turning to look down the hall. The speaker is very happy, Nandir’s inference software told him.

“That is in—” Nandir said, but then stopped himself. Frank might be very happy to see Keith beaten again. Nandir decided not to correct the software.

“Okay,” Frank said. “Anyone else have questions about the drop schedule?”

Head-shakes all around.

The speaker is interested in ballroom dancing, Nandir’s software said. Suggest askinghim/her out for an activity.

Nandir sighed.

Then, softly, he laughed. He still had a long way to go, but at least he had something to do.

Romance

Jere took her to Yamashiro that night, which was strange, because Patrice had heard him talking shit about the place, saying it was for tourists and people who wanted to get married. And it was one of those showy places where you paid as much for the view as the food. Some producers had taken Patrice out there before, so at least some industry people went there. But in the strange ecosystem of what constituted cool in the world of studio luncheries, she knew the hot places changed every month, favoring the small places with flyeye-zappers the Oversight spooks hadn’t shaken down yet, the funky places with active wallpaper and a few bar-stools, a menu printed by an ancient laserprinter, and maybe an engineered dog-parrot under glass, squawking out the dialogue from the hot interactive of the week. Yamashiro was nothing like that. It was one of those cal-asian places that had been doing the jive so long that it seemed almost respectable. Quiet little booths with crisp linen tablecloths clustered around views of the Los Angeles skyline through the floor-to-ceiling glass. He must have taken me here because he thinks I like it, Patrice thought.

“Thank you,” she said.

Jere looked up from frowning at the menu. “For what?”

“Taking me here.”

A start, and a guilty smile. “You’re welcome.” Jere went back to studying the menu.

“What are you having?”

“Oh. I don’t know.” Eyes on the menu.

“Will you order for me?”

“Sure.”

“You will?”

Jere nodded. Looked at her. His eyes darted around, almost distracted. “Of course.”

“What’s the matter?”

Jere looked back down at the menu. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? You can’t even look at me!” Irritation rose in her, and Patrice heard her voice rising to a shrill note.

She expected Jere to explode, but he only sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“What’s the matter?” Patrice said.

Jere looked up at her. For the first time, she noticed little beads of sweat standing out on Jere’s forehead. As if seeing where she was looking, he wiped them away with a shaky hand.

“I’m no good at this,” Jere said.

“No good at what?”

Jere stood and knelt near in front of Patrice.

No. This wasn’t happening. No. No. No. Patrice felt the world’s foundations come unstuck and slip sideways. This was a dream. Not even a dream. She’d never let herself think about this. She’d never ever allowed it. Even with Jere.

“What?” Jere said.

Patrice realized she was shaking her head and pushing herself back in her seat. She shook her head, feeling tears close to spilling.

“What’s wrong?” Jere said.

“Do it,” Patrice said.

“Do what?”

“Just say it!”

Jere looked at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Yes, I figured it out, she wanted to say. I’m not as dumb as you think. But she couldn’t open her mouth. Jere fumbled in his jacket. Patrice watched him, thinking, This is nothing like the interactives, where the suave prince always picks the perfect moment, always has the right words. This was almost common, almost pedestrian. Of course, the prince also didn’t have to run a company, or worry about buying a ring, or do any of half a hundred other things a real man would do.