LANIGAN BOOKS

PROLOGUE The TV flickered on, and the classroom fell quiet. Taylor McCauley slouched behind her binder in the third row, chewing the cap of her pen, only half-listening until the word Mars lit up the screen in bold red font. Someone near the back whispered, “Yo, this is the thing everyone’s been talking about.” Her homeroom teacher, Mr. Lambert, turned up the volume. The TV said: “Today, we welcome an extraordinary announcement from Polaris Industries, the privately funded terraforming and aerospace company whose AI-guided rover systems have been constructing on Mars for nearly a decade. Until now, Mars was automation-only. That changes this year.” The footage then cut to Martian landscapes with ribbons of red dust, shadows of machinery crawling across cratered plains, a dome inflating slowly like a white lung. A kid near the window muttered, “No way this isn’t a Black Mirror episode.” The anchor, a tech-looking guy, continued enthusiastically: “Polaris CEO Cormac Selvan confirmed today that the first civilian-based colonization wave will launch this fall. Ninety people. One ship. One-way ticket. Each participant’s family will receive five million dollars. Paid upfront upon application approval.” Taylor went still. Wait—what? The class stirred. Someone hissed, “Five million?” Another kid in the back, always gunning for a laugh, leaned forward and tossed it loud enough to hit every row: “Five mil to bang in zero gravity and grow lettuce? Where do I sign?” The room cracked. Laughter ricocheted off the walls. Mr. Lambert didn’t even look up from his desk. “Enough,” he said, with the weary authority of a man with two decades past being surprised. Cormac Selvan appeared on the screen with silver hair, a tailored suit, and the calm confidence of a man who could send ninety souls to die on another planet and still make it sound like a TED Talk. “This isn’t about astronauts. This is about architects. Teachers. Systems specialists. Storytellers. We’re not only sending science. We’re sending culture. Civilization doesn’t begin with landing. It begins with living.” “Or dying,” Taylor thought. More footage rolled, concept art of a Martian greenhouse, people tending to greens under soft red light, fluid movement in curved corridors, dust sweeping past arched windows. Taylor blinked. She felt something shift in her chest. Everything she heard on the TV didn’t register as excitement. It felt like distance. Like a door opening far away. The anchor commented with a bravado voice: “With farming systems, water loops, and atmosphere regulators already live on-site, Polaris says the question is no longer when we go. It’s who. Introducing Dr. Murad, who is the Head of the Selection Committee.” Dr. Murad appeared next, framed by a tastefully blurred bookshelf and a carefully positioned plant, the standard décor for corporate empathy. He had the calm cadence of someone who’d been media-trained into oblivion with warm eyes, a neutral blazer, and just enough grey at the temples to suggest wisdom without age. The kind of guy whose job was to assure the public that sending civilians to an uninhabitable planet was not reckless but visionary. “We’re selecting for adaptability. Resilience. We don’t want soldiers; we need civil builders.” Taylor’s pen stopped moving. She stared at the screen. October 25th. That was the launch date. The anchor’s voice softened, even as the camera swept upward toward a pale Martian sunrise. “Polaris Industries. Mars is no longer waiting.” The screen went black. The class erupted. “Bro, I’d sign up in a second.” “Wouldn’t catch me dead on that planet.” “Imagine never coming back—” Taylor sat still. The voices around her blurred into static: laughter, gasps, half-formed jokes, but she felt none of it. Her fingers curled around her pen, knuckles pale. Something inside her shifted—small but seismic, like the soft click of a latch release. She didn’t know why. Didn’t know what. Only that whatever this feeling was… it wasn’t wonder. It felt colder. Farther. Like a signal from deep space meant for someone else, but still, somehow, meant for her. CHAPTER ONE The first thing Daniel McCauley registered was the throb behind his right eye. The second was the voice on the television in the living room. It sounded louder than it should’ve been and too cheerful for the hour. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep on the couch, but there he was, one foot tangled in a fleece blanket, the other half-numb on the floor. The bottle of Crown Royal—what was left of it—sat uncapped on the side table. He didn’t remember what the fight was about this time. He just remembered her voice raised, then the door slamming upstairs. Again. He squinted toward the screen. “—a major milestone in human history. Polaris Industries has officially completed Phase One of the Mars base, and this morning, the company announced their first manned mission: ninety civilians, carefully selected for psychological resilience, adaptability, and specialized skillsets, each compensated five million dollars, trained and shipped to Mars in October of this year.” What? Daniel blinked at the screen like it was lying to him. “Company officials say the use of civilians over career military or astronauts is part of a long-term colonization strategy, focused on building sustainable, livable environments—not combat or exploration.” He sat up slowly, his skull echoing with pressure. The screen showed a red horizon, silver domes casting long shadows across dust that looked almost unreal. The kind of image that was meant to sell something big. “The domes, life support systems, and supply infrastructure were constructed almost entirely by AI-guided robotics over the past seven years,” the anchor continued. “Now, Polaris says, it’s time for human hands to shape the next phase—culture, continuity, permanence.” Daniel fumbled for the remote but didn’t turn it off. “The selected candidates will not be returning to Earth,” the anchor added. “They’ll be part of a historic leap forward. The first permanent Martian settlement begins now.” Daniel let the words hang. Five million per family. No return. A one-way trip for the sake of progress, branding, or legacy, whatever it was, it didn’t matter. He rubbed his eyes, then dragged a hand down his face. The kitchen was quiet. Caroline had already left. Taylor’s door was still shut. He reached for the half-full glass of water on the coffee table. Warm. Flat. He drank it anyway. The TV continued behind him, talking about the volunteers who had already applied—scientists, engineers, teachers—brave, brilliant people. He stood and stretched. His joints crackled. Five million. One-way. He didn’t say it out loud, but the thought parked itself somewhere deep inside his chest. It didn’t move for the rest of the day. *** Taylor had pressed for an early dinner because she wanted to hang out with friends, so Daniel figured sushi would do. No cleanup, no effort. Caroline was running late again. She worked at a women’s clothing store in North York, and her boss paid her a little extra to stay a little longer and reorganize the merchandise after closing. She’d been staying behind at the store more often, organizing racks, counting inventory, and doing anything to stretch the evening. Daniel didn’t feel like cooking. Even with money tight, he still decided that Skip the Dishes would outperform him and his frying pan. Sushi was what Taylor liked. That was a good enough argument. Caroline walked in just as the delivery arrived. Her eyes went straight to the brown paper bags in his hands and narrowed like they’d caught a crime in progress. “For fuck’s sake, Daniel, why sushi?” He didn’t answer. What was the point? She’d find a reason to be angry either way. He unpacked the trays in silence. Save the breath, Daniel. Just feed the kid, he thought. Caroline glanced at the sushi on the table before walking away to change, and for a second, he thought she might say thank you. But she didn’t. “Taylor!” he called toward the stairs. “Sushi’s here!” “Coming!” she yelled back, cheerful and far away. He grabbed a bottle of white from the wine fridge—there was only one left—and set it on the table. He didn’t think too much about it. “Seriously? Again?” Caroline’s voice had that sharp edge, low and cold. When’s the booze parade supposed to end? Scotch last night, wine tonight. What’s next?” “Give me a break,” he said, not looking at her. “You want some?” “No.” It was a hard ‘No,’ cutting like she wanted it to hurt. “Okay,” he muttered, pulling out a chair. Taylor came down the stairs, already dressed to go out—jeans, hoodie, eyeliner a little too sharp for her mother’s taste. She looked happy. Light. Anticipating escape. Then she stepped into the kitchen, and the temperature dropped. She saw the sushi, the wine, the way her parents were avoiding eye contact, and all that light fell right off her face. She sat down slowly, like someone walking onto a frozen lake. Daniel immediately caught the change. He hated how well she could read the air now. “You’ve got time to eat,” he said gently. “I told you, I’ll drive you after.” Taylor nodded, silent, unwrapping a pair of chopsticks like they were made of glass. No one touched the wine.