The First Mann on Mars - Chapter One
Chapter One of the hilarious new science fiction novel, The First Mann on Mars by best selling, multi-award-winning author Mark Watson...
The First Mann on Mars
©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson
Chapter One: Derek and Barry
It is a truth universally acknowledged, at least by those in the exclusive club of people with a spare continent or two in their back pockets, that if your best friend happens to own all the spaceships, you are likely to end up in space yourself, whether you want to or not. Such was the case with Derek Mann, Earth’s second richest human, whose singular achievement on the path to becoming the first Mann on Mars was, as with many things in his life, entirely accidental.
Derek, you see, was a man of substantial size, which is to say that his gravitational pull was noticeable. He had inherited his fortune from his father, who had inherited it from his father, and so on, in a chain of progressively less competent individuals stretching all the way back to a Mann who, quite by mishap, found himself the sole owner of a considerable chunk of America. This was shortly after everyone around him had inconveniently expired via a series of regrettable scalping incidents. This ancient patriarch, with the cunning and wit now synonymous with the Mann family name, would often chuckle and claim to have "put the Mann in Manhattan," a joke so profoundly crap that it has persisted through the centuries, passed down with the family’s collective obliviousness.
Derek Mann, true to form, had demonstrated from an early age that he was exceptionally gifted at not learning anything, no matter how fervently or frequently it was explained to him. Teachers, driven to the brink of madness, would fondly refer to him as "Derek In Time" or "Derek In Space" — monikers which reflected both his chronic tardiness and his equally chronic absence of mental presence. His ability to be cheerfully unaware of the world around him was, some might say, almost supernatural. He coasted through his education like a helium balloon drifting lazily toward a ceiling fan, until he finally graduated by sheer force of accumulated years, rather than any particular academic achievement.
His father, in a stroke of managerial genius, found him a cushy position at the family conglomerate, where Derek could do the least possible damage. This mostly involved Derek sleeping in an office, occasionally being handed things to sign and food to eat, with no one particularly caring which went where. It was a perfect arrangement. Justin was content, the company continued to amass wealth despite his best efforts, and the universe carried on as it always had.
But then, the 21st century happened. And with it came the utterly bonkers notion that being obscenely wealthy qualified one for a seat in a spaceship. The richest person on Earth, Derek’s childhood chum, had been looking for a suitable candidate to send hurtling into the cold, indifferent void of space—ideally someone with little to no chance of returning but who could, if things went horribly right, give space tourism a much-needed boost.
One evening, while propped up at a bar in the kind of place that exclusively serves drinks with price tags more appropriate for medium-sized yachts, Derek let slip that he, too, would like to go to space. He chuckled at the thought. “Derek in Space,” he said, between mouthfuls of artisanal olives. His friend, the Earth’s richest person and purveyor of fine spacecraft, took this as an excellent idea. As did Derek’s father. Derek, it was decided, would go to Mars first, to make sure the place wasn’t too dangerous. And if, against all odds, Derek survived the journey, well, perhaps then it might be safe for the rest of them to follow.
Thus, with all the subtlety of a timpani falling down a spiral staircase, the UberMannsch project was launched. Derek Mann was strapped into the world’s most automated spacecraft, which had been designed to perform without the least bit of human intervention—because, in Derek’s case, intervention was almost certainly going to result in catastrophe. The spacecraft’s designers worked tirelessly to create a system that would be impervious to even the most egregious bungling, ensuring that Derek’s only responsibilities were to not remove his earplugs and to avoid strangling himself with his sleep mask during the three-month voyage.
Accompanying Derek was an Artificial Intelligence of the most experimental and unnecessary kind. Its creator, one Barry Wilkinson, had, in a fit of self-indulgent narcissism, named the AI after himself. Barry Wilkinson (the machine, not the man) was tasked with the dual responsibilities of piloting the spacecraft and gently prodding Derek whenever his snoring reached a pitch that might interfere with sensitive equipment.
The AI Barry Wilkinson was modeled on his inventor—quite literally. It had been painstakingly crafted in the image of the man himself, which, in this case, meant a squat, rotund little robot with a lazy eye and a greasy combover. The only real difference between the two was that the robot was entirely silver and mercifully free of any lingering odor of stale lab coats.
And so it was that Derek Mann, Earth’s least qualified billionaire, and Barry Wilkinson, a silver-plated monument to human hubris, set off toward Mars in a spacecraft designed to ensure that absolutely nothing could go wrong. Which, of course, was the sort of plan that had every chance of going spectacularly wrong indeed.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
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