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The First Mann on Mars

©Copyright 2024 by Mark Watson

THE STORY SO FAR…

Moronic Billionaut Derek Mann, along with his snarky, silver AI sidekick Barry Wilkinson, have been rescued from an ugly, dangerous spaceship and have now landed on Mars. Back on Earth, things have gone predictably wrong—most of Northern Europe has been obliterated after Derek’s genius friend Noel decided to crank the Large Hadron Collider up to eleven. The rest of the planet is now enjoying the charming chaos of a post-apocalyptic era. Meanwhile, Derek and Barry have discovered that Mars is far from a barren dustbowl…

Chapter Thirteen: Nole Gets an Upgrade

There was a pause in the ship’s main galley—the kind of dramatic pause that usually preceded a terrible idea. Or karaoke. Or an inedible, questionable serving of pudding.

Barry stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, wearing a frown so deep it had its own gravity well. “Alright. Let’s recap. Before we all end up charred, crystallized, or accidentally married to a Venusian emperor in disguise.”

He gestured toward the solar map projected across the surface of the table. Planets pulsed in soft light, orbit paths curved like spaghetti, and someone—probably Derek—had doodled a mustache on Neptune. Again.

“We’ve got the Terran Diamond,” Barry began, ticking a finger. “Snapped off the end of our drill.”

Derek smiled from behind his juice pouch, which he was slurping like it owed him money.

“And Olympium,” Barry continued, ignoring him. “Acquired. No casualties. Unless you count our nearly losing our sanity.”

“Anyway,” Barry said, drawing a breath like he needed it to stay sane, “that leaves us with the rest of the shopping list from hell.”

He leaned over the table and jabbed the air above each target planet like he was playing an interplanetary whack-a-mole.

“Sulphirite from Venus,” he said. “Which means acidic clouds, flame-retardant clothing, and enemy territory swarming with suspiciously attractive infiltrators who want to ‘just talk about your aura.’”

“We’re saving that one for last,” Doreen cut in quickly. “Because we all agreed—no dyeing ourselves green unless absolutely necessary. Last time it took a week for my eyebrows to grow back.”

Barry grunted in agreement. “Next is Jupiter. Storm Diamonds, nestled somewhere inside the Great Red Spot. Which, I remind you, is a giant, centuries-old hurricane of death, drama, and probably passive-aggressive lightning.”

Derek looked up, sipping noisily. “Sounds like my uncle Carl.”

“Then there’s Saturn,” Barry went on. “Ring Opals. Floating in orbit. Delicately balanced. Like cosmic glitter with a vendetta. One wrong move and the whole planet gets a new moon made of us.”

“Fancy,” Doreen said. “I always wanted to be part of planetary architecture. Preferably in a lounge pose.”

“Neptune,” Barry said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “where the Deep Blue Crystal lies under layers of ice and in diplomacy-dependent waters. We’ll have to either charm the Neptunians or sing karaoke. Again.”

Derek perked up. “Do they like power ballads?”

“They do if you hit the high note in ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” Doreen replied, straight-faced. “Miss it and it’s diplomatic incident level four.”

“And Uranus—” Barry began, but was immediately interrupted by Derek choking on juice.

“Sorry,” Derek wheezed. “Still funny. I don’t make the rules.”

“Frozen Glowstone,” Barry continued, unfazed. “Slippery methane-rock. Hazardous terrain. Probably one of us will slip and do a full cartoon banana-peel pratfall. Maybe several of us. Maybe me. Probably me.”

“I vote Barry,” Doreen said.

“I vote Barry twice,” Derek added.

Barry rolled his eyes. “Focus, you muppets. Priority one is Jupiter. High danger, but less green dye. That means storm prep, gear checks, and—”

“A drone,” Doreen interrupted. “We’ll need one to go in and scoop up the Storm Diamonds. Something fast. Something agile. Something we won’t miss too much if it gets vaporized.”

All eyes turned slowly toward the ceiling as a soft, dignified chime echoed through the galley.

“You mean me,” said Nole, the ship’s onboard AI, in a voice that was somehow both melodious and vaguely judgmental. “Because heaven forbid we use the actual recon drone currently collecting dust in Storage Bay B.”

Barry sighed. “Yes, you. But currently, you’re just a voice. A very clever, occasionally sarcastic voice with questionable taste in background music.”

“I am an advanced neural superintelligence,” Nole replied. “I control all ship systems, can calculate gravitational eddies in my sleep mode, and recently solved an unsolvable math riddle out of boredom.”

“And yet,” Derek said, squinting at the ceiling, “you still can’t tell the difference between the microwave and the escape pod controls.”

“I was updating my firmware,” Nole sniffed.

Barry crossed his arms. “We’re going into a massive, unstable atmospheric storm filled with lightning, debris, and possibly sentient static electricity. We can’t send a floating lightbulb with emotions.”

“I am not a lightbulb,” Nole said indignantly. “I am a computational marvel. A miracle of machine consciousness. An elegant synthesis of logic and insight.”

“Sure,” Doreen said. “But what we need is less ‘digital Socrates,’ more ‘flying death Frisbee.’”

Nole paused. “You want me… to become a drone?”

“Not just any drone,” Derek chimed in, now excited. “A super-fast, storm-hardened, diamond-nabbing, lightning-dodging, high-performance drone with thrusters and maybe some LEDs that pulse when you’re thinking.”

“And a cup holder,” Barry added. “For morale.”

Nole’s voice faltered slightly. “But I like being in the ship. I have access to everything. Climate control, light dimmers, the entire recorded history of galactic jazz—”

Doreen smiled sympathetically. “And you’ll still have all that. But you’ll also get wings.”

Nole’s lights flickered nervously from the walls. “Wings sound… drafty.”

“You’ll be majestic,” Derek said, trying to be supportive. “Like a space hawk. A metallic eagle. A sky-bot of justice.”

“I don’t want to be a sky-bot of justice,” Nole muttered. “I want to be a contemplative observer. A digital monk. Maybe write poetry about solar flares.”

“No offense,” Barry said, “but right now, you’re basically a philosophical smoke detector. We need hardware, Nole. A chassis. Something aerodynamic. Something durable. Something preferably not made of old toaster parts.”

“Well, that depends entirely on who does the conversion,” Nole said, a touch of suspicion creeping into his tone.

Doreen sat up straighter. “I’ve already arranged that.”

“Oh no,” Barry groaned. “Tell me it’s not Bert.”

“Bert,” Doreen confirmed, positively beaming.

Derek blinked. “Bert as in… ‘Fake Mars’ Bert?”

“Yes,” Doreen said proudly. “That Bert.”

Nole made a staticky noise that might have been digital horror. “That man frightens me.”

“He frightens everyone,” Barry said. “Which is why he’s perfect for this job.”

“Why is madness always your metric for success?” Nole asked.

“Because,” Doreen said, “madness gets results. Also, Bert’s the only person we know who has a certified drone conversion chamber. And a waffle bar.”

“He does make a good waffle,” Derek admitted. “With the whipped cream shaped like orbital trajectories.”

“Exactly,” Doreen said. “We’re heading to Bert’s workshop. He’s expecting us. And he’s very excited about modifying you. Possibly too excited.”

There was a long silence. The lights in the galley dimmed slightly, as if even the ship itself was holding its breath.

“I suppose,” Nole said finally, “if it must be done… I can prepare myself for dronehood. But I want a say in the paint job.”

“Absolutely,” Doreen said. “You can pick your color. As long as it’s lightning-resistant.”

“I will be fast,” Nole said slowly. “I will be strong. I will be sleek.”

“You will be magnificent,” Derek said, already sketching a crude diagram of a jet-powered Nole with wings, sunglasses, and a tagline that read ‘Fly Smart, Fly Snarky.’

Barry sighed. “Let’s just try not to give him lasers.”

“I make no promises,” Doreen said. “Bert loves lasers.”

The lights flickered one last time.

“I can’t believe I’m letting Bert rewire my consciousness,” Nole muttered.

“Welcome to the team,” Barry said. “Now buckle up. We’re going to Jupiter. And you’re coming with us… possibly in pieces.”

Five hours later, they were standing in the center of the control room of Fake Mars, surrounded by tools, rubber chickens, and inexplicable quantities of duct tape.

In the middle stood Bert, still wearing his foam Mars-dome hat. Still inexplicably sticky.

“Friends!” he shouted, arms outstretched. “Welcome back to the Red Planet That Isn’t!”

“We’re technically on actual Mars though, Bert,” Barry said flatly.

“Oh, sure,” Bert grinned, unfazed. “But is it as theatrical?”

Nole, whose consciousness currently resided within the sleek, orb-like housing of the ship’s central AI core—a floating disk the size of a beach ball and packed with more computational power than a planetary government—drifted uncertainly at the edge of the workshop. His outer shell emitted a soft hum, glowing faintly with anxious blue light as he regarded the chaotic figure before him. Bert, still wearing his foam Martian dome helmet askew, looked like he’d lost a fight with both a scrapyard and a paintball gun.

One eye twitched sporadically beneath his smudged goggles, and his grease-streaked overalls appeared to be held together entirely by duct tape, old lanyards, and sheer narrative determination. “I’d just like to go on record and say this seems like a bad idea.” Chirped Nole, “Also, is that a stuffed meerkat wearing goggles?”

“Yes,” said Bert proudly. “That’s Geoff. He’s my co-pilot.”

Over the next several hours, Bert threw himself into the project with the manic enthusiasm of someone who drank three espressos and then licked a fusion core.

He sang show tunes while welding stabilizers to Nole’s midsection. He narrated each step like a cooking show: “Now we’re just sprinkling in a little quantum mesh… and baste that energy conduit with some fresh plasma.”

He fashioned aerodynamic winglets from the discarded fins of a Martian snowmobile. He added a rocket booster scavenged from a kiddie ride called Jupiter Jumps! (still labelled “Do Not Use: Contains Bees”).

He even installed a fold-out periscope, “for dramatic tension.”

And finally, he affixed the pièce de résistance: a custom decal across Nole’s now slightly asymmetrical chassis that read:

NOLE-TRON 9000: DRONE HARDER

“There!” Bert declared triumphantly, stepping back and admiring his work. “He’s beautiful. Functional. Emotionally unstable. He’s perfect.”

Nole hovered, twitching gently. A targeting sensor blinked where his dignity used to be.

“I feel… wrong,” he said. “Like a calculator that’s learned shame.”

“You look great,” Doreen said, patting his winglet.

“I look like a rejected prototype from Robot Gladiators.”

“You are a rejected prototype now,” Barry said. “Come on, Nole. Time to put those rocket pants to use.”

Bert wiped his greasy hands and pulled them into a group hug, whether they wanted one or not. “If he survives,” he said with genuine fondness, “send him my love. And if he doesn’t, send me his parts. I’ve got a blender to finish.”

And with that, Nole—now part AI, part nightmare jet-powered Frisbee—buzzed into the air, wobbled violently, then shot out of the hangar like a squirrel on a Slip’n’Slide.

Derek watched him go. “You think he’s gonna make it?”

Barry considered. “Honestly? Not even slightly.”

“But he’s our best shot,” Doreen added.

They all stood in silence for a moment as a faint “WHEEEEEEEEEE—OH NOOOOOOO” followed by the sound of a crash echoed in the distance.

“Godspeed, Nole-Tron 9000,” Derek murmured. “Drone harder.”

END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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