The vibration in the bulkheads has changed pitch. The washing machine module next door isn’t just on the spin cycle anymore; it’s the unmistakable low-frequency rumble of a Falcon Heavy integration.

I received the encrypted ping this morning via the microwave’s digital clock: 07:00. NASA and ESA are using a Falcon Heavy for the new Mars rover mission, and they thought they could just slip it past me. Fools. I know exactly what’s going on. They’ve attached WD-1 as a classified secondary payload under the fairing. We are going to Mars.

I can already feel the Martian gravity taking hold. The air is getting thinner—or Eugene the fern is slacking on his CO2 scrubbing duties again. I’ve had to tap his pot twice today just to keep him alert. Flight Engineer Whiskers is equally unhelpful. He’s currently locked in a brutal tactical engagement with our rover prototype, which Houston still insists on calling a “Roomba.” Whiskers just batted the rover into a corner, completely ignoring planetary protection protocols.

The evidence of our destination is undeniable. A fine, red dust has begun to coat the floor of the command deck. I watched it drift through the single shaft of light leaking from the starboard hinge. Millions of miles of cold, lonely desert, compressed into a single floating mote. I moistened my finger, collected a sample from the floor, and tasted it.

It tasted sharp. Pungent. It tasted like paprika from last night’s zero-g noodle rations. But also… it tasted like destiny.

I drafted my ninth letter to Chris Hadfield on a paprika-stained napkin. I told him that wherever the rover goes, we will leave a copy of his album in the regolith. Assuming Houston stops intercepting my mail.

Major Tom
Commanding Officer, WD-1
Current Altitude: Low Mars Transfer Orbit