Nowhere to Go But Mars

My life was toast. So, what the hell, I boarded the train and joined the millions of people on the trek to Death Valley, home of the Colonial Émigré Center.
“Proceed along the orange lines!” the rep ordered. “We’re processing over three hundred thousand of you Colonial wannabees this week!”
“And they’re only accepting fifty thousand of us this week,” muttered the guy behind me.
I glanced at my new pal, Rafe, one of the many guys I’d made friends with in the last week or so. Apparently, Colony Management was rather discriminating, and we Americans apparently weren’t considered the healthiest lot.
Those who could afford better weren’t about to give up the cushy life for the less than palatial digs of the cave warrens of Mars. It would take generations of backbreaking work to terraform the planet, as well as house and feed a growing colony...