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Second Place
by Nick Webb
November 5th, 2067
Sweetie, before I answer your question, just keep in mind who the hell I am. I’m the second goddamned human to set foot on Mars. THE SECOND. And more people are moving there every day. Here, I’m nothing. Some nameless retiree in some nameless godforsaken suburb of Dallas. There, I’d be a goddamned prophet or something. Like Adam. Or, uh, Columbus, except less, you know, genocidal.
FRANK BICKHAM, SECOND human to set foot on Mars, punched the ‘send’ key a little too aggressively, accidentally hitting delete instead.
“Aw... sh—” he began, before looking over his shoulder to see if the great-grandkids could hear. Sure enough, the littlest was peering up at him with her wide six-year-old eyes. “—amwow,” he finished.
“Don’t you mean shit?”
He spun around to face her. “Samantha! Don’t say that! Who the hell taught you to say that?”
“Grumpy,” she said, laughing, pointing at him.
Frank sighed. “Grumpy,” he repeated. The computer behind him chimed. Another message from his granddaughter, probably wondering why he hadn’t responded yet. When the hell was she going to pick up these rugrats, anyway? He tousled Samantha’s hair playfully.
She grimaced, and in a solemn six-year-old voice said, “Stop, Grumpy. I’m having a bad hair day.”
What six-year-old has a bad hair day? “Go,” he said, pointing to the other room. “Go be a kid.”
Samantha ran off, giggling, and Frank strained to read the new message before cursing again and ramming his reading glasses onto his nose.
So are you going to answer the question, Grumpy? Or just start ignoring me again?
He punched out the previous message he’d erased as best he could remember and fired it off, before switching to his other message feed from the pencil pushers over at Interplanetary Reserve Inc. Nothing new yet. Dammit.
Another chime. Her reply was just a terse, Call me.
“Shit,” he said again, yanking the glasses off and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have time for another long conversation with his granddaughter, convincing her why he needed to go to Mars. To go there for good. She had a husband, for god’s sake, she didn’t need old Grumpy around to watch the kids. Why the hell was she clinging on to him? “Aw, hell. Fine. You want me to call you? Let’s talk, sweetie.”
Before he could even pick up the phone, the computer chimed again, this time from the other feed. It was Interplanetary. He punched over, his hand shaking ever so slightly. Parkinson’s? The doc assured him it was under control. Naw, just nervous. Ha. Frank Bickham, second man on Mars, nervous about what a bunch of good for nothing pencil pushers would say.
Mr. Bickham,
Pursuant to our conversation on 10/29/67, your status as Mariner Valley colony member #10,257 is approved. Attached, please find the orientation packet and final paperwork that must be completed by....
He stopped, and began again, rereading to make sure he wasn’t imaging it. A thrilling jolt ran up his spine.
It happened.
He’d done it. Well, almost. One last step remained, but for all intents and purposes, barring any unforeseen unfortunate events, it was going to happen.
Frank Bickham, second man on Mars, was going to be the first man to die on Mars.
Switching over to a third feed, he fired off a message he’d composed months ago, to his rival, Jerry Su, first man on Mars.
Suck it, Su. I won.
Signed,
And he grinned.
Frank looked up from his datapad, thinking the approaching person was his new friend, but no, just another passerby. In Dallas, when random people walked by his table outside the cafe, they wouldn’t even make eye contact. Who cares about some cranky old bastard having his morning coffee? But here, on the main plastic boulevard under the clear composite glass of Huygens dome in Mariner Valley on Mars, he was a goddamned celebrity. Shit, even the street was named after him. Bickam Boulevard. They spelled his name wrong on the sign, but he could look past little details like that. Better than drinking a cup over on ass-ugly Su Avenue. In a few months, he’d be frickin’ immortal. First man to die on Mars. Bam. They’d rename the whole godforsaken valley after that shit.
The approaching woman kept glancing at him surreptitiously, looking like she was taking great pains to not look like she was looking at him, but by the time she passed his table she dropped all pretense.
“Are you...?”
He smiled his strained, fake ‘for the adoring masses smile’.
“The one and only.”
She looked young. Well, probably in her late forties. Young enough for him to not be overly concerned for her health, thank god. And therefore, not worth his time. “Charmed,” he said, accepting her handshake. Briefly. He had work to do—no time to schmooze with his fans.
She held on to his hand a split second too long. “Ma’am?” he began, before she pulled the hand away, looking mortified. “I’m terribly busy. But so very good to meet you.”
She looked mortified, chagrined, and flustered all at once. “Oh! And, uh, you too! We’re so proud to have you up here with us. Or down here. Or... here. You know. Mars. Huygens Dome. Su Avenue.”
“Bickam Boulevard, actually. Yes, yes, I know, thank you,” he said, smiling his strained smile. He spied an elderly man shuffling down the boulevard towards them. Ah. His new friend. “If you’ll excuse me, Mrs....?”
“Martinez. Jackie Martinez. I’m an environmental engineer working on CO2 filtration and sequestration over in satellite pod ten. I don’t get over here to the main strip very often—I haven’t had a good cup in coffee in forever. How’s this place? I keep meaning to try it, but I’m always so rushed when I come over here, you know, what with work and all, but it certainly looks like a decent coffee shop. You come here often? Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m rambling. Sorry. I’ll be going. So nice to meet you, Mr. Su!”
“Bickham!” he called after her. Once she was gone, he stretched his cheeks and lips. “God, that hurts.” He’d held his ‘for the masses smile’ the entire time, which tended to strain his face. He stood up to greet the elderly man who’d finally made it to the coffee shop. Bickam Boulevard in Huygens dome wasn’t that long—just under a kilometer, but his new friend looked like he’d just completed a fifty kilometer hike.
That didn’t bode well.
“Mr. Smith? Very pleased to meet you. Frank Bickham.” He extended a hand.
“Mr. Bickham! A pleasure!” Smith’s handshake felt weak. Damn. Another bad sign.
Frank waved him to a chair at his table on the narrow, plastic composite sidewalk. “Have a seat. Can I order you something? Coffee? Orange juice? Quinoa extract? Something healthy?”