A small convoy of rovers rumbled over the bumpy terrain of Ayrus en route to the Paradigm Preparatory Institute’s main spaceport. It was a stadium-sized structure a little smaller than the Arena of their Final Exam, shaped like a letter U with a long runway stretching for several kilometers. It had a retractable roof that was almost always left uncovered, Nic learned in transit.

The U-shaped building went starkly against the architectural grain of the rest of the colony; whereas other habs and buildings were spartan, functional, often monotonous, the spaceport was designed with eye-catching curves and waves, sporting extravagantly-shaped oblong doors effectively disguising the airlocks they contained. Its reflective terraplastic windows caught only the most appealing shades of blue to bounce back in the eyes of visitors, creating a welcoming, if perhaps disingenuous impression of an exoplanet that was still not fully habitable. To the untrained eye, this spaceport could pass as the kind one would find on Iuxta or even Earth.

Nic had feared he’d never see the inside of it. But now the day was here.

The spaceport was nearly at capacity on this graduation day. Nic counted two dozen small-crew ships parked closer to the runway, and in the back of the spaceport were about a dozen midsize transports—probably for the corporate sponsors, he guessed—with one massive cargo freighter at the very back. I bet those are our rides out of here, he thought, studying the small ships.

He’d never been to space. With the exception of the jetpacking proxybot that lifted up his simulated body in the Arena, he’d never even been off the ground. He felt his pulse pounding in his throat.

From the rovers, Nic, his new squad, and all the other Top 100 Final Exam winners were led inside the enclosed hab of the spaceport. They were instructed firmly to remove their airsuits and make sure they didn’t track any Ayrus dust past the atrium. Nic saw why a moment later—the place looked like a mansion on the inside. It was by far the most ornately decorated interior Nic had ever witnessed in person, probably on all of Colony 228.

The floor was made of polished white marble that reflected the glittering glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling. It was an open floor plan, and the scattered wooden tables reminded him of the taverns in one of his favorite sims, Elvenchant; however, rather than being made of rough-hewn, well-worn wood, these tables were smooth and dark with a glossy coating. It was uncommon to see much of anything made of wood in real life. Nic knew from one glance that there was more wood in this room than the rest of the planet combined.

Each table bore an unnecessarily lavish folded paper sign—paper was also something of a rarity reserved for only the most official or ceremonial occasions. The signs were marked with a number, 1-20; based on their initial meeting, Nic quickly deduced that their table was the one marked with the number 19, so he led his squad over to that one.

At the far end of the room was a long bar with a marble countertop. There was a tantalizing spread laid out on it, assorted wooden and metal trays with diverse hors d’oeuvres, most of which Nic couldn’t identify—but they looked delicious all the same. He'd been too nervous about his exit exams and the Final to eat at all that day. And what an exhausting day it had been. He was famished.

RTIFIS announced cheerily. The AI gave a scripted chuckle and a handful of the couple hundred people in the room responded in kind.

“Nic Siegfried!” said a snappily-dressed businessman at Table 19. He wore a pinstripe suit with a crisp, glaringly white shirt and a sleek red tie. He was approaching and shaking Nic’s hand before Nic had even gotten a good look at the guy. “Pleased to meet you! Great work out there in the Arena, Mr. Squad Leader—all of you, really, did a terrific job. Name’s Hansen Dyne! I’m here with Red Terraforming, Inc. My partners in crime, Yasir and Clotilde.” He gestured to two more suit-and-tie types, one androgynous-looking and the other feminine, both with big, toothy smiles and tired-looking eyes. “Who here wants a drink? Nothing strong, mind you—maybe a nice Martian beer? I saw a bottle of vino from Earth back there, too.”

“Oh, no thanks,” Nic laughed on behalf of his team. “We’re not 25 yet. I mean, obviously.”

Hansen winked conspiratorially, like he was doing them a big favor. “Ah, but adults over 18 can still be supplied one unit of alcohol by anyone of legal drinking age. That’s the law in Sol, anyway, and that’s where we’re from, so your secret’s safe with us! Beer? Wine? Anyone?”

“I’ll try a beer, please” said Jarek. “Always wanted to see Mars one day. A little taste would be nice for the time being.”

Hansen snapped his fingers and pointed at him with a grin. “Attaboy. What about you, Maqsud? Or do you prefer Max? What drink would you enjoy most?”

“‘I don’t know why we are here, but I’m pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves,’” Maqsud replied.

Hansen cocked his head and laughed uncertainly, looking at his peers. “Well, of course it is! This is all for you, superstar!”

“That’s a quote by Ludwig Wittgenstein. Of Earth. I’m not sure if I feel comfortable trying my first drink at a time like this, Mr. Dyne, as appealing as the selection appears to be.”

The Red Terraforming, Inc rep snapped his finger-guns at Maqsud this time. “Ah, a man of philosophy! I see! Well, as you know, ‘Liberty consists in doing what one desires.’ John Stuart Mill. Did you know we have that engraved on the wall at Red Terraforming HQ? It’s kind of our personal philosophy, actually.”

“‘Freedom is secured not by the fulfilling of one’s desires, but by the removal of desire.’” After a quiet beat, Max added, “Epictetus.”

Hansen nodded, still smiling with only his mouth, and his gaze drifted off into the rest of the room for a moment before he snapped back to attention. “You go by Perri, if I recall? How about you?”

“If the wine’s a red, I’d love a glass,” she replied sweetly.

“Beer. Red wine. Anything for you, Shanti?” The fifth member of their squad, hanging in the back, shook her head curtly. “All right. Coming right up!” Hansen Dyne and his cohort Yasir left to fetch Table 19 some drinks and little bite-sized food portions, the kind that wealthy people from Sol were wont to eat.

Clotilde and Perri made conversation, which faded into the background noise as Nic surveyed the room. There were numerous company banners hanging from the walls—Red Terraforming, Inc as well as Green Planet Investments, Blue Corp., Yellow Expansion Industries, and other basic color-coded companies. If their attire was any clue, and each company rep dressed according to their employer, Nic noticed there were at least two other tables with reps from Red Terraforming. He wondered if they would ever be partnered up with other Red squads in teams or if terraforming battles were strictly squad-on-squad.

Meanwhile, waiters dressed in gray tuxedoes distributed crystal glasses of sparkling water to everyone in the room. Nic was marveling at the intricate design of the crystalware when Jarek elbowed him. “So,” said Jarek, “they really know how to throw a party, huh?”

“This is just an investment to secure the surplus value of our labor,” Max observed cynically. “These festivities are just a small fraction of their operating cost, considering how lucrative terraforming is nowadays. It’s the modern engine of capital.”

“You think they’re just tryin’ to butter us up, huh?” Jarek replied.

“An ever-shrinking handful of corporations vies for control of terraforming rights to potentially habitable planets. In modern times, war is now fought between private companies rather than nation-states, and now it’s not even a flesh-and-blood war—it's all simulated, right? Much more ‘civilized’ that way. In the end, a captured planet nets one of these corporations trillions in credits, and we get paid 50,000 each on top of our annual salary. It’s all there in our contracts.” Max shrugged, sipping his sparkling water. “This whole shindig is merely designed to tease us with promises of wealth if we put our heads down and do the sanitized dirty work. This meet-and-greet is a glorified end-of-the-year pizza party scaled up for the ‘superstars,’ as they put it.”

Nic thought sympathetically of everyone in the Final Exam who did not finish in the Top 100, who were probably having just such a pizza party at this very moment. He wondered how long they’d be able to stay at PPI until they were given their job assignments. Part of him wished he could go back underground and say goodbye one last time, an inexplicable wave of nostalgia crashing over him.

“Well, I, for one, am excited to try my first wine,” said Perri with a playful shrug of one shoulder. “And I’m excited for our new jobs. Seeing new planets only a few other humans have ever set foot on, if any, playing a game, and getting paid for it—enough to retire in 10 or 20 years? Who wouldn’t be excited?”

“I’m excited for you, Perri!” said Hansen, returning to the table with their refreshments. He and Yasir made a show of bestowing everything on the table graciously. “It is Perri, right? This here is a zinfandel from New Century Phoenix Vineyards in California, historical region for wine on Earth. This is a ‘23, great year. New Century Phoenix is actually the oldest Californian vineyard still in operation—started up about a decade after the end of Climate Crisis 2 on Earth, when California was just getting resettled, and business has boomed ever since! This is 15.4% ABV, and I want you to be on the lookout for three flavor notes, okay? Berries, smoke...”

Hansen droned on in the background. Nic felt something like survivor’s guilt. Winner’s guilt, if there was such a thing. On top of that, Maqsud’s know-it-all bitterness swirled into the mix. Nic’s mood soured ever so slightly.

***

“Everyone smile and say ‘Red Terraforming’ on three, ready? One, two, three... Red Terraforming!” There was a click and a gentle flash of light.

Hansen Dyne held a holophone in his hands and took a crowded picture of the eight of them—all three company reps, plus all five members of the squad now known as Team Scarlet. According to Hansen, this was an antiquated ritual that originated, of course, on Earth, called the “selfie.”

While much of Earth’s culture and language had been painstakingly preserved, to the point that even colonizing other star systems was no excuse to abandon any of the old ways, the idea of the selfie was not one that resonated with Nic. There was no singular moment that he wanted to immortalize in a two-dimensional image that much. Perhaps an image of his mother’s face—he no longer remembered what she looked like, and when he used to dream of her, his mind replaced her face with the face of a female magister or someone he’d seen in a sim. He tried his best to wear a winning smile for this selfie all the same.

“Beautiful,” Hansen gushed after the fact. “Just beautiful! This is going right to HQ for them to throw up on the lobby display.” Nic got the impression that the fast-talking rep was planning to say that no matter how the picture turned out. “So, how about today, huh? Dinner. Drinks. A little conversation, some talk of the future. What do you say—are you guys excited for this awesome adventure you’re about to go on?”

Jarek and Perri responded with great enthusiasm, and Nic felt compelled to match it, even if enthusiasm was not chief among the mixed emotions whirling inside him at the moment. Maqsud applauded halfheartedly like a bored adult humoring a child, despite the fact that he was just an 18-year-old like the rest of them. Shanti made no appreciable response at all.

After a short speech by some important organizer or higher-up or somebody like that—Nic wasn’t paying attention when the man was introduced—they said their goodbyes to their company reps. Hansen, Yasir, and Clotilde shook the hands of each member of Team Scarlet, using both of their hands and lots of eye contact and bold smiles. The phrase “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to shoot us a beacon” was tossed around multiple times.

After that, it was time for the squads to depart on their individually chartered ships. Nic estimated that each one had to be at least 50 meters in length. They looked big from the outside, but he worried claustrophobia might set in when they had nowhere else to go.

“We’ll be in contact soon, Team Scarlet,” said Hansen. “Like I said, don’t hesitate to reach out if you need anything, okay? Facilitators will help you onto your transports from here. It’s been a pleasure meeting all of you.” Nic’s squad was herded with the others, one squad at a time, to the procession leading toward the spaceport’s arrival-facing airlock. As the reps walked away, Nic lingered, and he could hear Hansen say, “I need something stiffer than wine in my hand about 10 minutes ago.”

“Team Scarlet, your airsuits,” said a facilitator, distributing a stack of five to the group. These felt crisper and newer than any of the others; it must have been because these were set aside specifically for the squads’ deployment, since none of them would likely set foot on Ayrus again.

RTIFIS said when it was their turn at the airlock.

“This is it, squad,” said Nic. His leadership voice came up from a well deep inside him, shoving past the lump of fear in his throat on its way out. “Here we go. Get ready, Team Scarlet.”

It didn’t matter if they were truly ready or not. The airlock opened and out they went.