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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 Twelve: The Singing Goats of Olympus Mons

“Right,” said Barry, stepping up with all the gravitas of a man about to audition for a toothpaste commercial. “If you have to dye us green, we’ll do Venus last.”

Doreen and Derek nodded in firm agreement. Green dye, they had agreed, was best left to the end, if only to avoid looking like undercooked sprouts for the majority of their heroic quest.

Meanwhile, Nole twittered in the background like a caffeinated bird with access to too many data feeds.

“First up is Olympium,” Barry continued, tapping an imaginary map on his palm like he’d seen someone do in a spy film once. “It’s a rare crystalline mineral found only in the lava tubes and caves beneath Olympus Mons. Glows faintly, hums ominously, and if licked—which we shall not do—it tastes vaguely of overcooked asparagus.”

“Charming,” muttered Derek, adjusting his utility belt, which did absolutely nothing useful and existed purely for dramatic effect.

“I think, what with it being the nearest and least likely to immediately kill us, we should get that one first,” Barry concluded.

“Agreed,” Doreen said, flicking a switch on the side of her aircar. The vehicle revved with a noise not unlike an overenthusiastic goose and lifted gently off the ground.

As they buckled in, the Martian Parliament building shrank behind them, its spires twinkling in the ruddy twilight.

“Course plotted,” said Nole smugly in their heads. “Estimated time to Olympus Mons: fourteen minutes and one amusing anecdote.”

Derek peered out the window, watching the beautifully lush, green Martian landscape blur below. “Do you think the caves will be dangerous?”

“Oh absolutely,” Doreen grinned. “Caves are always dangerous. Otherwise they’d just be scenic holes.”

Barry sighed and rubbed his temples. “Let’s just hope this one isn’t occupied by something carnivorous, territorial, or existentially confusing.”

From the dashboard, Nole chimed in: “Fun fact! The last team to enter the Olympus caves emerged three years later speaking only in riddles and entirely nude except for a tutu.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe I should’ve brought a second pair of pants.”

The aircar surged forward into the Martian sky, toward Olympus Mons and the rare, possibly-sentient mineral known as Olympium. One down. Several to go. Probably a small war in between. Possibly snacks.

As the green paradise of Mars zipped by beneath them like a malfunctioning treadmill, Nole’s voice piped into their heads again, alarmingly chipper. “Did you know that Olympus Mons is the tallest volcano in the solar system, and technically the largest passive-aggressive geological structure in existence? It hasn't erupted in millions of years but it could, if it wanted to. It just doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“Great,” Derek muttered. “Passive-aggressive terrain. My favourite.”

Doreen piloted the aircar with the sort of casual confidence that made Derek nervous and Barry visibly sweat. She was steering with one hand and using the other to apply a subtle lip gloss, which shimmered in the Martian light like the surface of a haunted lake.

Barry checked the map projected onto the aircar’s dashboard. “According to this, the entrance to the cave system is just below the volcano’s western ridge. It’s marked with a small warning symbol that I think means ‘Certain Doom’, but could also mean ‘Unstable Wi-Fi’.”

“Same thing, really,” said Derek.

Nole chimed in again. “Reminder: Olympium crystals have been known to emit mind-altering frequencies. If you begin to hear Gregorian chanting or develop sudden emotional attachments to minerals, please alert your team immediately.”

“Noted,” Barry said, tugging his collar nervously. “Also, why does the map have a label here that says ‘absolutely not haunted’ in quotation marks?”

“Oh, that,” Nole said, sounding amused. “It’s more of a suggestion than a guarantee.”

The aircar landed with a gentle fwoomp just outside a jagged cave mouth nestled in the shadow of the mighty volcano. The entrance looked about as welcoming as a tax audit with teeth.

Derek peered into the darkness. “Right. Off we go then. Into the mysterious, crystal-infested Martian underworld.”

Barry hesitated. “Should we be concerned about traps? Cave monsters? Sudden musical numbers?”

Doreen patted his shoulder. “If we’re lucky, all three.”

As they stepped into the cave, the gloom swallowed them whole, the walls pulsing faintly with an eerie, aquamarine glow. A low hum vibrated through the rock, like the planet itself was trying to remember the lyrics to a song it heard in a pub once.

Behind them, the aircar locked itself with a satisfied bleep, as if to say, “You're on your own now, idiots.”

They exchanged a look. Then, bravely—well, semi-bravely—they walked deeper into the cave.

Somewhere in the distance, something went ping.

“Okay,” Derek whispered, “I’ve changed my mind. I need three pairs of pants.”

They ventured further in, the tunnel narrowing into a series of twisty, glowing corridors that looked like the inside of a psychedelic lava lamp that had recently developed opinions. The walls shimmered faintly, as if the cave were trying to flirt with them.

“Is anyone else hearing... jazz?” Derek asked, tilting his head.

“Smooth jazz,” Barry confirmed, frowning. “But oddly judgmental.”

“Excellent,” Doreen muttered. “The Olympium is already trying to get into our heads. Stay sharp, ignore any psychic projections, and absolutely do not attempt to slow-dance with the minerals.”

A low, echoing voice whispered from the walls: Saaaaxophone...

“No promises,” Derek mumbled.

As they turned a corner, the cave opened up into a vast chamber glittering with crystal formations the size of double-decker buses and the attitude of teenage influencers. The Olympium crystals pulsed with light in time to a beat only they could hear—probably something obscure and Martian, like psychic ska.

“Oh wow,” Barry said, eyes wide. “They’re beautiful.”

A particularly haughty-looking crystal formation shimmered, then produced a projected image of Barry with a tiny crown on his head, sitting on a throne made of soup cans. He looked very confused. And also, slightly allergic.

“I think it likes me,” Barry said, alarmed.

“It’s trying to manipulate you,” Doreen warned. “Ignore any flattering hallucinations. Last time I was here, one tried to convince me I was the reincarnation of Martian royalty. I ended up wearing a salad bowl as a hat for three days.”

“I have the photos,” Nole added helpfully.

Derek stepped cautiously toward a crystalline stalagmite that appeared to be vibrating in anticipation. “Right, so how do we extract one of these things without being mentally rearranged?”

“Easy,” said Doreen, pulling out what looked like a giant cocktail shaker crossed with a hairdryer. “This baby’s called a Resonant Disruptor. It knocks them loose without activating their full psychic defences. Just don’t—”

Too late. Derek had already poked one with his finger.

The Olympium shrieked. Not a loud shriek—more like an offended gasp at a garden party.

Immediately, the cavern lit up like a Martian disco hosted by someone who’d recently discovered glitter and caffeine at the same time. The walls pulsed with a kaleidoscope of colours that hadn’t been invented yet, and the crystals began humming in harmony—low, thrumming notes that made Derek’s bones vibrate in a way that felt both deeply spiritual and alarmingly gastrointestinal.

Then the hallucinations began.

Above them, glowing images projected into the air like the fever dream of a particularly avant-garde theatre company.

First up: Derek, pirouetting across a grand stage in full ballet regalia—tutu, tights, and a slightly confused expression. He was mid-leap, arms extended gracefully, a sausage skewered on a cocktail stick held aloft like a triumphant flag. Applause echoed faintly from nowhere, along with a voice narrating in French, “Le Cochon Volant – a triumph of the human spirit… and ham.”

Barry’s vision wasn’t much better. He appeared in a slow-motion sequence from a hyperdramatic telenovela titled Amor en los Tentáculos. Wearing an open silk shirt billowing heroically in the wind, Barry clutched a tentacled alien lover in one arm while shaking his fist at the stars. “¡No, madre! ¡Yo soy el heredero del planeta Helado!” he cried, as dramatic strings swelled and lightning struck behind him, despite them being inside a cave.

Doreen’s vision materialised next, and it was perhaps the most disturbing of all. She stood in an immaculate, chrome-plated kitchen studio in front of a live audience of adoring Martians, wearing an apron that read “Beat, Whip, Destroy.” The title flashed behind her in explosive lettering: How To Brûlée Your Enemies. She was mid-demonstration, caramelising the surface of a terrified alien’s forehead with a plasma torch while cheerily explaining, “Now remember—don’t be shy with the sugar, and if their screams taper off too quickly, you’ve probably overdone it!”

More images burst forth in rapid succession: Derek accepting a crown made of sausages from a council of solemn badgers; Barry locked in a shirtless arm-wrestling contest with a sentient baguette; Doreen piloting a spaceship shaped like a teapot through a war zone made of cheese.

“Oh my God,” Derek whispered, “this cave knows things.”

“It’s in our heads,” Barry muttered, watching a vision of himself serenading a cactus in a candlelit bubble bath. “It’s in our souls.”

“Don’t worry,” Nole chimed in brightly. “This is a totally normal Olympium-induced psychic mirage loop. Happens to most tourists!”

“Tourists?” Doreen snapped. “We’re being mentally assaulted by interdimensional theatre!”

A final image burst forth: the entire group dancing the conga with various world leaders from long-lost Earth, all dressed as circus animals, while the crystals chanted, “One of us! One of us! Banger king forever!”

“I’m not doing any of that!” Derek shouted.

“Oh no,” Nole sighed. “You’ve triggered a reality cascade.”

“Do I want to know what that is?”

“No,” said Nole. “But you’ll know it when the singing goats show up.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Baaaaa.“WE ARE THE KEEPERS OF THE CRYSTAL RHYTHM,” intoned a floating, bearded goat.

Doreen facepalmed. “I told you not to touch anything.”

Barry nodded, backing away slowly. “To be fair, this isn’t even the weirdest thing we’ve seen this week.”

The goats began circling, bleating in time to a rhythm only they understood. One of them had a tambourine.

“We need to end this before it escalates,” Doreen muttered. She aimed the Resonant Disruptor at the nearest Olympium shard and pulled the trigger.

FZZZZZ-BLAM!

The crystal shattered cleanly at the base and plinked into her waiting satchel with all the drama of a dropped ice cube. Instantly, the hallucinations popped like overconfident soap bubbles. The goats let out a disappointed sigh and faded into the Martian ether, presumably to go haunt a museum.

The lights in the cavern dimmed. Peace returned.

Derek blinked. “Right. Nobody mention that ever again.”

“I dunno,” Barry said, surpressing laughter. “You looked pretty awesome in that tutu.”

END OF CHAPTER TWELVE

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