Gravity. That was the first thought to tun through my head as the train sped along the tracks towards the distant, domed city. Why did it feel like we were still on Earth? As I recollected, the moons of Mars were tiny. Smaller, even, than Earth's moon. And how could you even fit Los Angeles on Phobos? Then I remembered Chet said there was only a fifteen mile chunk of the city left. Meaning…what? That it had it been scooped up and translocated to one of the moons of Mars? Or could it be a reproduction, like an enormous Vegas casino?

Maybe Phobos had increased in size during the Changes. If Phobos had grown to the size of the Earth, it would have the same gravity, right? But then it’d be bigger than Mars. And Mars would be Phobos’ moon, right? And that giant planet in the sky was Mars. Right?

It all seemed unlikely.

Giant gravity generators buried under the moon’s surface?

Well, now I was just making stuff up.

It was foolish to fall into such mental inquiry. Every question gave rise to another question until the mind wildly began to spin in place, without traction, going nowhere.

Oh, and was “translocate” even a word?

I looked hopefully at the other passengers on this train. They stared pleasantly out the windows as we approached the city.

Why waste my breath? They didn’t know the answers to my questions. They were middle-management workers, concerned more with television ratings than whether technology or magic was keeping the train from achieving escape velocity.

I kept quiet.

Saligia had a question more their speed.

“What time zone are we coming into?” She had her thumb and forefinger poised on the stem of her wristwatch.

I suppose that was her way of dealing with things when they got too weird. Fall into some routine. At the moment she decided to take on the role of a traveler arriving at her destination.

“We keep to Pacific Standard,” said Wanda, glancing at her own watch. “It is currently 9:17. That’s AM.”

“Yeah,” said a balding man, one of Wanda’s colleagues from I’d Eat That! “You’ll never know day from night here by looking up. Phobos is tidally locked with Mars, which always dominates the same part of our sky. I guess you could say a day’s thirty hours, if you want to go by how we see the sun. And you’ll soon notice that as we revolve around Mars, the planet goes through a full phase, you know, like Earth’s moon, crescent to gibbous. Best to go by old LA Earth time. It sure is a pretty view, though.”

The guy sounded more informed than I had expected. But before I could ask him some of my questions, he said he needed to head back to his stateroom and get his luggage. His wife and kids would be waiting at the station.

“I’m sure to see the both of you around the halls of Network headquarters,” he said to us. “I can’t wait to see what Saligia Jones will cook up for her next show.”

He, along with the rest of the passengers, made their way to the stairs and soon it was only me and Saligia.

The skyline looked much as I remembered it. I mean if you cocked your head just right so you did’t see Mars looming in the sky. As we traveled closer, it all began to make itself clear. There was Security Pacific Plaza, the Paul Hastings Tower, Los Angeles City Hall, and over there, off to the side, the hump of Griffith Park. I felt a swell in my chest, somewhere between nostalgia and civic pride.

“So much glass,” Saligia said. I assumed she was talking about the transparent dome that went up at least three miles above the city. “There,” she said, pointing. “I was wondering how we’d get inside.”

The train tracks dipped along a slope that took us into a tunnel. Once inside, the overhead industrial lighting had a dusty a sickly yellow tint. We decelerated, and eventually came to a stop. There was a rushing of wind.

“Must be an airlock,” I told Saligia.

“On Mars!” she whispered, her expression not quite fear, not quite awe. “We’re on Mars! How…weird.”

“Phobos,” I corrected. I felt a slight lurch. We were going up.

Apparently the airlock was also an elevator.

Our train was elevated up into the daylight and we found ourselves brought to a final stop alongside one of the train platforms of Union Station.

There were dozens of people waiting out there.

“I guess no one is here to welcome us,” Saligia said. She pressed her face to the window. “I’ve been to this train station before, back when I was a girl. It’s so odd. The same, but different. I think it’s the light. Do we call it sunlight, or Marslight?”

“We need to go collect our things,” I said, taking her elbow and guiding her to the stairs.

###

Outside, on the platform, it was Saligia’s turn to grab my arm. I thought she was reacting to Ida and her group of sycophants from the Serpientes y Escaleras crew, but she was drawing my attention to a tall, distinguished man beside Ida. A man who had not been on the train.

“It’s Parcell Prescott,” she said. “Head of the Network.”

Before I could ask her if that was a good thing or a bad thing, the man spotted us and headed our way.

Prescott smiled and reached out as if to embrace Saligia, but she stiffened. So, instead, he placed a hand on her shoulder. His face was smooth and shiny—it practically beamed.

“We are so glad you decided to come to LA. You should think of it as your homecoming. That was an extraordinary show you put on for the finale. What a way to go out! There’s a buzz throughout the Network, my dear. I predict bright things ahead for Saligia Jones.”

I glanced across the platform and watched the little group of Ida and our supposed colleagues. They drew in close together and were pointedly not looking our way.

“You’ll be needing one of these,” Prescott said, holding up a plastic ID card with the Network logo hanging from a red woven lanyard, exactly like the one around his neck.

Saligia took a step back, uncertain.

“More of a formality,” the man chuckled, glancing at the badge. “For a star of your stature, there’s not a person in this city who wouldn’t recognize your face.”

Saligia’s face softened. She stepped forward and graciously dipped down, like a beauty queen receiving her crown. Prescott placed the ID around her neck.

He produced another ID from his pocket—did he carry a bunch of them around all the time, or had he been alerted of our arrival? Prescott was less theatrical with me. He just handed me my card.

“And one for you, Mr….”

I took it, letting it dangle in my hand by the cord. “Fisher. Morris Fisher. I filled in at the last moment when Hal—”

“The particulars are unimportant, sir," Prescott said with a wave of his hand. “You’re here with us now, and we couldn’t be more delighted. Welcome aboard.”

“Mr. Prescott,” Saligia said, in almost a whisper. “If you were watching the broadcast, you know some of our people got sent through the portals. We’re very concerned for their safety.”

“A terrible thing,” he said. “No doubt about it.”

“And, as I’m sure the Network will want to take the responsible course of action—”

He cut off Saligia.

“I do believe everyone on the show signed that basic absolute liability waiver.” Prescott continued to smile, but there was now a mildly menacing edge to his voice. “Standard with all our contracts. Much like joining the military, employment with the Network can be a dangerous lifestyle. But I do hope you’re finding it exciting and fulfilling.”

“We’re here because of Sy,” she said. “We came to find him.”

Prescott sighed.

“Sy, well, his relationship with the Network is a complicated matter. I don’t feel it’s an appropriate subject to discuss out here in public.”

“That’s not our concern,” I said.

Though his smile never wavered, Prescott turned in my direction with a tiny tilt to his head which let me know I was not important enough to address him directly.

“We just want to know he’s safe,” Saligia said. She took a deep breath before asking in a soft tone, filled with doubt, “He is safe, isn’t he?”

I found myself wondering if she was reading Prescott’s mind.

“Everyone who departed the Serpientes y Escaleras studio through the portals would have arrived at Central Processing. Strictly speaking, CP is not part of the Network. We contract with them for their very unique services.”

He paused.

Saligia held up her hand.

“Saligia Jones and—”

“Yes,” Prescott said. “I know. Saligia Jones and Morris Fletcher.”

“Fisher,” I said.

“I meant,” Saligia said, ignoring me, “Saligia Jones and Silverio Moreno. We’re a team.”

“Ah,” said Prescott. “As I said, we’ll speak more tomorrow. Now, I’ve called ahead and reserved two suites at the Belton Hotel. My driver will take you there immediately.”

I poked Saligia in the side with my elbow.

“We want to do a little sight-seeing first,” she said. Perhaps finally she was reading someone’s mind. “We’ll make our way to the hotel on our own.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Prescott said. He gave us a slight bow and walked down the platform. Ida took a moment to glare at us both, before she and her people followed Prescott.

Michael, however, hung back. Once Ida had turned a corner, he walked up to Saligia.

“I’m sorry about the misunderstanding back there. You know, back at the train station in San Antonio.”

“Yes,” Saligia said, narrowing her eyes. “I remember.”

“Office politics, I guess. At its worse.” He laughed nervously. “It is so wonderful you made it here.” He looked at me. “The both of you! Here’s to great work ahead.” He held out his hand. Neither Saligia nor I made a move to take it, so he just clasped both his hands together in some strange display of solidarity, perhaps. “Well, I’m sure to be seeing the both of you soon.” He dipped his head and walked away.

I reached out to the ID card hanging from Saligia’s neck and held it up.

“You still want to be involved with these people?”

“If they can get Sy back. And if they can return us home. You know, to Earth. I’d rather not spend the rest of my life on Mars.”

“Phobos.”

“The light’s weird here, and it smells funny.”

“You’re a joy to travel with, Saligia Jones.”

We left the train station and walked up to a cab driver leaning against his car.

“What a charming couple,” he said. “Welcome to Los Angeles, and how can I serve you?”

“First, take us to some place I can sell some of my gold coins,” I told him.

“You want money?” the driver asked. “But you’re with the Network.” That last word he spoke with hushed awe. “I can’t imagine anyone in this city taking your money. And don’t even think of tipping me. That’d be a mark against me.”

“What?”

“Every Network fare I get, I send in an invoice. And I promise you, I am handsomely compensated. I’m more than happy to take you anywhere. Inside the dome, of course.”

“Hollywood Bowl?” I asked.

“That’s a cinch. Hop in and buckle up.”

###

It occurred to me that all of the years I had lived in Los Angeles, I’d never been to the Hollywood Bowl. I only knew it from the movies and TV.

When we arrived, I was glad to see the gates were open. No one was around. Up in the amphitheater’s tiered seating, midway back, was a depression, like a crater. It was covered in a glass dome, resembling a miniature version of the dome covering the entire city. And inside that little dome was a squat, squarish building. Painted in vibrant orange and pink, it looked like a fast food restaurant. Beside it stood a sign with aqua-colored bubble letters spelling out Central Processing.

We pushed our way through a revolving glass door, and, once inside that little dome, we stood facing the small garish building.

“Central Processing?” I muttered.

“It’s tiny,” Saligia said. “And what a horrible color combination.”

When we entered the building, a bell over the door tinkled.

A young man in an orange blazer stood behind a counter.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to Central Processing. And I see you’re both with the Network. I am honored!”

“This is it?” Saligia looked around, her eyes coming to rest on the man behind the counter. “This is the…the facility?”

“This is our gift shop and information center,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “How about some information.”

I walked over to a large model of Phobos set atop a display cabinet. It was a globe that had been cut in half to show the interior of the moon. There, at the top, was the domed city of Los Angeles. And, though hardly to scale, a tiny replica of the Hollywood Bowl. Below it, there was a a tube, like a straw, heading toward the center of Phobos. Down into a large facility. It seemed the appropriate word.

“Where to begin?” the man asked with a broad grin. “There’s so much to say.”

I looked up.

“So, we take the elevator?” I asked, pointing to the wall beside him.

“Well, no one goes down into Central Processing anymore,” he said.

“Is it abandoned?” Saligia asked. She looked over at me. “I don’t understand.”

“Abandoned?” The man in the orange blazer chuckled. “My goodness, no. Shut, but not shuttered.” He lifted a hand and gestured toward the model of Phobos. “Quite some time before I began working here, Central Processing, Inc. broke away from the mother corporation, like a child leaving home. The CEO at the time decreed that all access to the underground facility be cut off from the surface. Security reasons, I suspect. So, the Seal, as you see it today, was placed upon the elevator during the Grand Ceremony of Restriction, a little over two hundred years ago.”

“Two hundred years ago?” I sputtered. “That’s crazy! The city of Los Angeles isn’t even that old.”

“Seal?” Saligia walked over to the elevator door and leaned in for closer examination. “It’s really just a piece of adhesive tape over the down button. Someone has written Do Not Remove with a felt-tip marker.”

The man in the orange blazer looked from me to Saligia, not sure who to address.

He chose me.

“Well, sir, not to nit pick, up the city of Los Angeles was founded in 1781. As for the elevator, well it was here long before the city materialized on Phobos’ surface. There’s a rich history of Mars and the Martian moons which predates the Changes. Allow me.” He handed me a piece of stiff paper. “It’s all covered in our tri-fold brochure.”

“We’re wasting time,” Saligia told me. She peeled off the tape and pushed the button. The elevator doors opened immediately.

“Good lord, ma’am, you’ve unpeeled the Seal of Taboo!”

I looked over at the man in the orange blazer.

“Are you going to try and stop us?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” He was holding his hands up, nervously picking at his lapels. “No one’s ever broken protocol.”

“All I wanted to know,” I said.

“It is encouraging that the elevator still seems to function,” he said, slipping on a pair of glasses and craning his neck curiously in our direction as Saligia and I stepped inside, hoping to get a glimpse, I supposed, of the inside of the historic elevator.

I pushed the single button on the inner panel. The doors closed and we headed down.

“Maybe we should be a little less cavalier,” Saligia suddenly said, looking at me with sudden concern. “We have no idea what’s waiting for us down there.”

I shrugged and told her we’d find out soon enough. I was more worried about the fact we were on an elevator that hadn’t been used in more than two hundred years.