Vienna

October 8, 2072

Hours Before The Launch

A old man with white pale skin was sleeping in the most luscious bed money could buy. His breathing was very slow, almost one breath a minute and at a glance appeared dead. The room was one of a rich billionaire with no family and an army of butlers needed to sterilize the dark ebony wood. The man was now a hundred and twenty five. There were no personal objects or frames on the walls with one exception; a picture of an old Asian man at the bed stand. This was Takeda, the unknown virologist to all but a few. The now-dying old man would be both honored and discussed to know he was the only man the old ghost respected. There was a plan, but that could wait. Priceless paintings from the Louvres lined these walls, commoners had copies to awe over.

A butler dressed in a tuxedo pushed the bedroom door, white gloves holding a tray. Once silently laid out on the bed stand, the emotionless man opened the curtains letting in everting light. On the silver platter was carefully lined a large crystal glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a shot glass containing a thick white liquid and a bowl filled with a handful of colored vitamin supplements. Before leaving, he pulled out from a vest pocket a card and balanced it against the shot glass. It read: Chairman Schmidbauer.

Minutes later, the man opened an eye. His pupils were naturally blood red. The man was no vampire, but his body had been damaged by Takedaas he healed him from a deadly cancer. The man was now full of hatred and as he grabbed a cane to move himself out of bed, he ate the pills in a single scoop and drowned them with the shot of white milk. It left a bad taste in his mouth he soon washed down with a couple of sips of the juice.

The old man was ready for the day. He unfolded open the card and read: “Marilyn suggests you watch the game.”

“Hun!”

The man slowly made it out of the room wobbling slowly to the living room as slowly blood returned to his old legs. The digital creature, the ‘bitch’ as Nick called her, wasn’t one to communicate openly with humans. This peeked his curiosity, it had to be important.

“Sir, the men for the Ark are here,” whispered the Butler.

He waved him away. As he walked in the foyer, others waited with piles of papers on their knees ready for work. In front of him was a chimney where fire crackled and above was a large television.

“When is the damn game on?”

They all waited, hoping for someone else to speak. Finally one offered, “It starts right now.”

Nick slumped in the large velvet chair.

He braced and made a sign to turn it on. Many excused themselves and left the room.

CNN - French Guyana

43 days to the Sixth Attraction

“Welcome to Round 25,” yelled with childhood exuberance the co-hosts of the live international broadcast. Billions, as usual, connected to this planetary success. The two news anchors could barely contain their excitement on the eve of the spectacular launch. “After tonight, the field of players will be narrowed from 256 players to only 128 lucky travelers who will see their tickets punched.”

“Who gives a fuck about this shit,” swore the old man in a kinder than usual tone, sitting in the large chair.

In the back of the presenters was the strangest of video feed. Over the woman’s left shoulder were images of a giant vertical ship, mounted on a pair of massive rocket boosters ready to launch to Mars. The white ship looked like a 737 mounted on the Space Shuttle’s pad and launchers. Around the pad, thousands of technicians were preparing the epic launch. The ship was different as it sported long wings and a large black structure at its tail. Over the other shoulder scrolled images from within a large army hanger. Here the 255 remaining players were each given a square space delimited by floor markings. Players, like boxers about to step into a ring were standing (with the exception of Sophie’s crippled father) on a large square yoga mat with lit rolled sides. Each was given a narrow space to play this game. They all wore helmets and moved in this world using the gloved interfaces. Away from their feet, still in their space were packed suitcases neatly fitting in a red floor marking. Each would play at the same time.

“Tonight we learn who qualifies for the next round, Round 26, to be played on... yes... mars! Half these people will be launched minutes after the results are announced in a week-long journey to our new frontier.”

The co-anchor continued, “Don’t feel guilty, the 128 contestants who lose, our bottom half, get a well paid job in the lower house as one of the Delegates. Comes with a pension and quite a bit of power.” On the screen rolled the competition’s schedule.

Mars Travel - (October 9-18)

The Presidential Challenge

Round 26 - 128 players

(64 Senatorial Election)

Round 27 - 64 players

(32 District Representative Election)

Round 28 - 32 players

(16 Cabinet Member Election)

Round 29 - 16 players

(8 Minister Election)

Round 30 - 8 players - Quarter final

(4 Keeper Election)

Round 31 - 4 players - Semi final

(2 House Speaker Election)

Round 32 - 2 players - Final

(President and Vice-President Election)

“It’s called Electoral for a reason. Each week of play, the jobs get more prestigious and winners get more power and money until we crown our new President.”

“As usual, tonight based on cumulative scores, we drop the bottom half in the rankings. Only the two leaders have such a commanding lead they already prequalified for the trip to mars, our current President and Sophie’s father. Half of these remaining players will unpack that suitcase on mars at the new Holliday Inn Hotel, the first luxury destination on the red planet.”

“We have two minutes before the start of Marilyn’s presentation. Let’s go quickly to Sam, our junior field reporter ready to interview the prodigy.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me,” grumbled the old ghost watching the broadcast. There was nervousness in his tone. He knew better than to play opposite to the computer. He knew when he was outmatched, she was out of his league, he knew it deep inside.

On the screen, a handful of fly-sized cameras zoomed down over the players until they converged on a strange junior duo. A young boy age eight was standing, microphone in hand, next to Sophie Lapierre not much taller. The boy was wearing the CNN colors while the twelve year old sweetheart stood in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. She had a large book tucked under her armpit and was ready to be interviewed once the cameras stopped moving. Behind them, an army of Electoral 2072 employees helped every player get logged into the virtual reality.

Inches from the pair, the deformed pinkish body of Laurent Lapierre was connected to a handful of beeping machines. The crippled needed no floor mat or suitcase. Instead he had a medical chaperon.

“You excited Sophie? You and your father are already qualified for the long trip.”

“Not really,” she politely answered. “I am happy for Dad because he is doing well but he has no eyes and can’t see where he is. In a closet or on mars it’s the same to him. I am not sure why we are forced to go. The President is not going.” Sophie was strikingly different in the atmosphere of frenetic energy simply because she did not really care for the game or mars.

The ghost said out loud at his television, “ little brat.”

“I wish I could go,” continued the young journalist. Sophie rolled her eyes. He was ready to change the topic. “What’s the book?”

She perked up, “Alice in Wonderland!” She unfolded the large book. Each page was an animated screen illustrating a chapter of the famous story. “I could only bring one, even if we are two to travel,” she pointed at her father’s transparent crib on wheels. “This has not started and it’s already getting on my nerves.”

“Why this book?” The boy was doing a wonderful job at deflecting the negative energy.

“It’s my favorite. A girl lost in a strange world. Marilyn told me at best we will be back here a week after my birthday in six weeks.”

“You know space travel is forbidden for anyone under eighteen. You will be the youngest on mars by twenty-one year I was told. A record.” She rolled her eyes once more.

“I wished she reconsidered letting us stay. We even need the doctor. It’s stupid to bring all three of us up there,” she was obviously worried about the travel. The young journalist was told in his ear to wrap it up. “Why him?”

“Marilyn insisted you come to her Center. It’s not about your father it seems.”

“Me? That’s stupid.” She was electrifying television. “I am not even playing.”

“I also wonder why. Back to you Houston.”

"Thanks Sam, what a wonderful now addition to our team. Everyone is packed and ready, playing the game from the French Guiana, where the Airbus A2070 is ready to launch in an hour after the game.” The anchor touched the earbud. “I am being told Marilyn is seconds from stealing the show.”

The team counted down from five. On cue, as the count hit zero, she stole the show.

The blood pressure of Chairman Schmidbauer jumped.