The Martian Echoes 

Neil W. Peterson 

 
 Peterson 1 

Table of Contents 

1. Where we Factor In………………………………………………………………………2 

2. Rocket Boy……………………………………………………………………………….3 

3. Terrestrial Bodies………………………………………………………………………...8 

4. The Planet at the Edge of the Universe………………………………………………….10 

5. Experience Machine ​…​...………………………………………………………………...11 

6. Epilogue………………………………………………………………………………….15 

 
 Peterson 2 

Where we Factor In 

Aliens aren’t real. 

Alien: A being or object that is foreign in relation to the known. 

Aren’t: A state of not-being. 

Real: The quality of existence 

We hope we are not alone in the universe, but aliens aren’t real. 

 
 Peterson 3 

Rocket Boy 

Twelve Hours Before the Race 

“Two more.”  

The track burned his feet. 

The sun was only just rising, but the Martian sand drank it’s rays greedily. His feet and 

hands were lost in the hot grain of the dirt as he lowered himself into a running position. The 

wind blew red dust across the field, empty, save for the two figures in the large oval track. A 

moment passes, and he begins to run. 

He runs against the wind, barefoot, in the hot Martian weather. The oxygen is thin. There 

are, after all, not many plants on Mars. But he runs along the track nonetheless. Pumping arms 

and legs and kicking up a red plume behind him. He is drenched with sweat and caked with 

crimson dirt. He is more tired than he has ever been in his life, but he is still running. He flies all 

the way around and reaches the figure on the other side the other figure in the empty track and 

flies past. After slowing to a stop, he trots back. 

“Well done. A new personal best, which also means a new record for humans mind you. I 

will contact the Earth Athletics Division after practice.You still have not, however, surpassed 

any of your opponents. One more.” 

Once again the hot sand burns his hands as he crouches to the dirt. Breathing hard, he 

waits for the signal from his partner. He takes off around the track again, faster than before. He 

forgets about the wind. He forgets about the sand. He forgets about the robotic coach measuring 

his progress on the track. He forgets about the unfair rules of the tournament in a few hours, and 

he runs. The fastest man on Mars. 

 Peterson 4 

One Hour Before the Race 

“Do not let your performance this morning worry you. Your physical capabilities vastly 

exceed that of any other human.” Comforted the mechanically uncomforting voice of the robotic 

coach. 

“It’s not the performance of humans that I should be worried about.” Groaned Webber. 

“I do not understand. You should feel great honor. You are the first human in history to 

qualify to compete in this competition.”  

“It’s not a competition if you know the outcome.” 

“The Android Games are a competition of skill of building and manufacture. They have 

been a staple of Martian culture since long before the Earthmen arrived on here.” The robot 

rattled on, “To be the first representative of the humans is a great honor. My Martian creators can 

calculate the outcome of the games yes, but the physical representation of their expertise is what 

attracts viewers. The inclusion of a human in the Android games is a variable that will unite our 

two cultures.” 

“My personal best is slower than their warm up. Face it Sweats, I’m not an ‘Independent 

Variable,’ I’m a control group. I’m competing to show the power of Martian technology, and the 

fact that no matter how hard we try, Martians can always build something superior to Humans.” 

“Sir, if I may ask then, why are you competing in the games if you feel this way?” 

“That’s simple Sweats,” Webber stood and stretched “I just like going faster than others.” 

An automated voice swept through the hallways of the athletic facility.  

“​Sprinters to the track. Sprinters to the track. First call.” 

“Thanks for all your help Sweats.” 

 Peterson 5 

Webber walked towards the track as Sweats connected to the wall, and assimilated into 

the mechanical structure of the building. 

Twenty Minutes Before the Race 

The roar from the crowd was deafening. Inhabitants from all over the red planet came to 

observe. The golden skinned Martians packed the enormous stadium. All in all, the human race 

was represented only slightly. Perhaps every 1 in 12 viewers were Earthmen.  

An enormous three-sided screen hovering in the center of the stadium displayed 

headshots of the participants of the next event. A martian android created by the Martian 

Government Coalition, extremely humanoid with grey and black synthetic skin. A martian 

android created by the Deepside Martian Colony, the shape of a tall man, eerily realistic, with the 

golden skin of true Martians. A third android created by the Martian Public’s Scientist League. 

With skin the color of a human. First caucasian, then Asian, then African, the android changed 

constantly. Every so often the skin would go translucent and show the unbelievably complicated 

inner workings of the android, or simply adopt a random hue to show the vast capabilities of its 

technology. 

Finally the fourth participant. A human from Earth. While the Martian androids smiled 

and laughed when on the screen, the picture of Webber did not move. The android’s names 

flashed across the screen, along with their fastest time around the track. “Venus, 35 seconds. 

SunRay, 34 seconds. Chameleon, 32 seconds.” And finally the fourth screen. It did not even 

show his name. “Human, 40 seconds.” The stands exploded in cheers for each android. There 

was laughter hidden behind the cheers for Webber. 

 
 Peterson 6 

Webber was on the track, stretching. He rubbed his muscles. He drank water. He sweated 

in the hot sun. The androids all had teams running final diagnostic checks over all of their 

systems. The skinchanger, Chameleon, looked at him. 

“You ready, Terra Firma?” He said, his skin a dark brown. 

“As ready as any human could be.” Said Webber, continuing to stretch. 

“Hey Terra Firma, is it true Earthmen can’t build androids?” Came the call from the 

golden skinned android. 

“Well of course not!” Shouted the grey skinned one, Venus, “Why else would they have 

to send a flesh boy!”  

“Are you sure you want to compete with us Terra Firma? You can still opt out and save 

your race the humiliation.” Chameleon drolled, now a sickly shade of blue. 

“Let him race, I want to see how I fare against the old man.” Chittered Venus. 

Webber had been training for this race for the last year of his life. The androids had been 

built a week ago. 

“​Sprinters to the start. Sprinters to the start. Final Call.” 

“Come on Rocket Boy.” One of the androids tittered and raced away. 

Webber stood and walked to the track. 

Zero Minutes Before the Race 

​ roar from the crowd. 

“​Welcome Martians and Earthmen. To the Android Games!” A

“We’d like to thank the Earth Athletics Division for providing their first representative to the 

games in their 32 years of interaction with our planet. In honour of the Earthmen, the event 

selected is their 400m Dash. The participants are waiting below at the track, eager to prove their 
 Peterson 7 

value as creations of intellect. Venus!”​ A roar. ​“SunRay”​ A rumble. ​“Chameleon”​ A 

​ oise. Just noise. Webber couldn’t determine whether it was 

marsquake. ​“And the Human!” N

applause or laughter. Mostly because he wasn’t listening. 

Webber didn’t really care about the insults from the androids. After the games they 

would be dismantled. These Martians worshipped their mechanical gods once a year, only for 

them to be taken apart after every game. They are born, they develop personalities, they are 

celebrated in Martian households, as Martian children wave flags with the android’s colours on 

them, they compete, and they are destroyed. These robot deities are studied and retired, passing 

on their most valuable traits to the next generation. Webber was alive. He would be here after the 

games. He would remember whatever happened today. 

“Sprinters take your mark. Prepare to witness history Martians and Earthmen.” 

“See you at the finish line Terra Firma.” 

“Three.” 

“Good luck Rocket Boy.” 

“Two” 

“Eat my red Martian dust human.” 

“GO” 

The fastest man on mars began to run. 

 
 Peterson 8 

Terrestrial Bodies 

The launching of the rocket had come and gone without as much interference as he had 

expected. One day he was living in an orphanage, the next, space. The transition from his old life 

to his new was as easy as learning to sleep in a new bed. A new bed, which was more 

comfortable than his last, aboard a rocket headed for Mars. This rocket was the seam that would 

sew two halves of his life together. 

Before his mother had died on Earth, his father had sent them postcards of the universe. 

Beautiful pictures of the cosmos, far off worlds, different species of plants: life away from earth. 

After his mother’s death, he had only received one postcard from his father. A blue house on a 

red hill. It was tucked into his shirt right now. It hadn’t left his person since he’d gotten it. That 

blue house was where he would find whatever he was looking for.  

That was in the long term. In the short term, he would find whatever he was looking for 

in the cargo hold.  

He had gotten onto this rocket as a stock-boy. It was no first class ticket off Earth, but it 

was a ticket off Earth, nonetheless. He swept and counted inventory; he slept and counted the 

days till landing. Boarding was significantly cheaper after he told them it would only be 

one-way. The rest of the crew treated him well enough, letting him sit with them at meal time, 

telling him about the other trips across the cosmos they’d been on, and on one memorable 

occasion, letting him pilot the rocket while they cheered on in drunken glee. 

Those were good memories. But now the trip was almost over. 
 Peterson 9 

The red planet had been burning in front of them for a few weeks now, getting closer and 

closer every day. Every day he had less and less jobs to do as they neared landing, which gave 

him more time to look at their destination. He thought about a blue house on a red hill.  

Now, he was in the cargo hold. Not counting stock of what they were carrying, not 

making none of the cargo had been damaged, but instead looking for a personal effect. The only 

luggage that he had boarded the ship with was somewhere down here. The ticket for boarding 

was cheap. The real cost was getting her on board.  

The rocket wasn’t carrying food or tools or building materials. The rocket was carrying 

corpses. Every cargo bay, every storage unit, every spot they could fit one, was filled with a 

coffin. Strapped down tightly to ensure the turbulence of space didn’t jostle them, the coffins 

built a labyrinth through the ship’s galley. The rocket was a hearse in space. 

It had a dark humor to it. People flew to Mars to get away from relatives. Then, once 

those same relatives had kicked the bucket, the ones who ran away felt so bad about it that they 

would pay to have the bodies sent up to Mars to be buried closer to them. Sometimes the 

company had to go and dig up a grave to take it to Mars. Someone realized life up there was 

better than life down here, and wanted their loved ones to experience in any way they could. 

The passage for a body cost a lot more than the passage for a stock boy.  

So, here he was. Sitting in the cargo hold of a rocket ship flying through space, with no 

possessions but a postcard, staring at his mother’s coffin. 

 
 Peterson 10 

The Planet at the Edge of the Universe 

The opening of the rocket door was not loud itself. But rather, it was the silence of its 

surroundings that exaggerated the noise to unnatural proportions. An explorer hopped out of the 

rocket and looked around. They seemed to be taking in everything in sight. 

This planet at the edge of the universe, untouched by life for generations, was rather 

bland. It was boring. For someone who had been spending years and years traveling here, it 

would be incredibly and utterly disappointing. 

The explorer kicked their rocket. They fell to the ground and held their foot, then, dignity 

in check, stood once again to survey the environment. A device was held high into the air, 

rotated slowly, and began to beep in a certain direction.  

The explorer walked all day and all night following the beeping.  

They walked the barren, barren planet. 

They walked until they found a temple. The only structure on the entire planet.  

It was old and small and forgotten. It had one room, and was much smaller than the 

rocket that had carried the explorer to the planet. There wasn’t much interesting about it. It was 

made of stone, and had one entrance. There were two things inside: a chair and a porthole. 

The explorer jumped in the air, and in that isolated spot of the most boring planet, you 

could hear shouts of joy. 

The explorer flung down the beeping device and ran to the temple. They sat in the chair 

and opened the porthole. ​As they peered out of the porthole, they could see everything, and 

everything could see them. 

 
 Peterson 11 

Experience Machine 

Memory? 

“How is he?” 

A young woman stood above me. She looked immensely sad, though I could not tell why. 

She looked at me like she knew me, and shed a tear when I looked back at her. I opened my 

mouth to ask her what was wrong, but she ignored me. She looked away and held a handkerchief 

to her eyes. She was dressed all in black, and had an elegant handbag with her. She looked as if 

she were to attend a funeral. 

“He’s holding on, but the doctors say it’ll be within the hour.” 

This new voice had come from a man in the room. He sat off to the left of the bed. He 

wore a dark suit and sat with his arms on his legs. He spoke with a somber silence in his voice. 

His words came with the clear articulation that only comes from stress and exhaustion. How had 

I not noticed him before? Why, he looks quite familiar. He looks rather like me. In fact he looks 

almost precisely like me! Why is he here? Who is he? And why does he have my face?  

“Whoa whoa there! What’s he doing?” asked the girl, as I moved to stand out of the bed 

they had me in.  

“Who is he? Who are you people?” I asked, my voice raspy, as if from lack of use. I was 

quite frightened now, these strangers were in my room and had no right to be. Except, was this 

my room? Everything is so clean and white... that isn't my bed! What had they done to me, I 

wondered. 

“What have you done to me?” I shouted. 

 Peterson 12 

The girl was crying now, sitting in the chair that the young man was in. The young man 

who looked too much like myself was in front of me now. He was shouting and waving his arms, 

he seemed intensely angry for an intruder. 

“You fool! You old coot! We come all this way and you don’t even recognize us. You’re 

not even in there anymore, they should just pull the plug!” He got very quiet after that, and 

looked sheepishly at his feet. The young woman was staring at him, incredulously.  

She stood up and left the room. He put his head into his hands and sat back down into the 

chair. After a moment he ran out of the room after her. And I was alone. 

“Hello?” 

Nothing.  

I sat back down on the bed that was not my own. I wanted to know what was happening, 

but something had made me very tired.  

“I’m going to go to sleep now. I’ll talk with you in the morning.” 

I didn’t know who I was promising to talk to, but I knew I needed to talk to them. I laid 

down into the bed and closed my eyes. It was the blackest night I had ever slept in. 

Everything is different now. 

“What the hell was that?” Demanded a man the same colour and shape of a particularly 

ripe tomato. 

“Are you trying to give me some thrice-blasted depression? I paid good money like all 

the rest to use your blasted machine and it won’t even work as advertised!” 

White-clad operators scurried about the room, like mice searching for cheese.  
 Peterson 13 

“My apologies Sir, we’re looking into the problem as we speak.” One of the workers said 

to the tomato.  

“I’ll tell you where the problems were! That wasn’t what I signed on for! The 

advertisement clearly stated that whatever I write down is what I dream of. I certainly didn’t 

write down dying as some old codger in a looney bin! Who was that then? He didn’t look like 

me or what I penciled in to your infernal machine.” 

“As I said Sir, we’re looking into the problem. If you’d lie back into the water we will 

have your correct experience running as soon as possible.” 

The tomato guffawed an awful noise.  

“You think I’m letting you load me back into the same malfunctioning machine?” He 

guffawed again. “I’m going to eat a doughnut before I sign my life away to you.” He climbed 

messily out of the water tub, pulling off the sensors attached to his naked body as he did so. “I’ll 

be in the food court, send someone to fetch me once you’ve found a functioning life-liar 

Machine.” 

“Please Sir, call it an Experience Machine.” 

“So long as it has Jamaica and women, I’ll call it whatever you please.” 

And he waddled away. Still naked. Still red, though now from lack of breath. 

Finale 

A few hours later, a man in white came to find the tomato. He had passed out in the food 

court, hands around a doughnut. They wheeled him into a room with a new tub and left him 

there.  
 Peterson 14 

When he woke, they returned and attached the sensors. They told him that no, they did 

not need him to fill out a form of what dream he wants again, and helped him into the tub. He 

never uttered a thank you. His eyes were closed when they pulled shut the lid of the tank. 

There the tomato laid. He dreamt of Jamaica and women. He dreamt until his real body 

died. Never once thinking of what could have been or if he was truly alive in the machine. 

 
 Peterson 15 

Space is an Auditorium 

The stars shift and twinkle. 

The sun shines. 

Earth swings like a hammer. 

And Mars echoes and echoes and echoes.