It’s a beautiful sunny day at the Belgrade Spaceport here in Neo-Yugoslavia. Eaglescream CEO Walter Hovnatanian III is present to shake each of your hands, and there’s a prerecorded vidcall from U.S. President Pen Jilette wishing you all good luck.

You put on your flightsuits (one-size-fits-none) and awkwardly line up in front of the ZSW Paternoster for photos. Walter stands at a podium, addressing the press.

“Today is a great day for science,” he declares in a high, squeaky voice. “Today is our first step toward answering the mysteries of Iadolanth.”

“IADOLANTH!” shouts everyone at once. Nobody is sure why they do. There’s a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“These fine spaceonauts,” he says, using the politically neutral term, “will study, survey, and, if possible, land on this new world. Assisting them will be the Paternoster‘s AI, Oswald. Say hello, Oswald.”

“Hello, Oswald,” says a voice over the PA system. Maybe three people laugh. The voice is raspy and fuzzy; research has shown that people don’t like AI to sound too clinical. This one sounds like it got hooked in cigarettes in high school and never quite kicked the habit.

“Oswald was developed by Eaglescream Systems’ Sears division, using the finest in space-ready hardware. Together, humans and machine will forge a new path into deep space!”

He smiles, allowing time for the photographers to take his picture.

“Launch will be in five minutes, followed by a buffet in the wedding tent over by Building E.”

Eaglescream support staff shoo you all into the Paternoster, where you find a bunch of reclining bucket seats, like in a planetarium. Seat belts lock you down automatically Overhead, an enormous screen is playing Popeye cartoons from the ’40s.

“Shouldn’t we be in the command module?” someone asks. “There is a command module, right?”

“Launch is automated,” says Oswald, cutting in over Popeye. “Please remain seated until third booster separation.”

So you watch Popeye during lift-off. The sound reduction in this room is pretty good; it sounds less like you’re sitting on a rocket, and more like someone in the next room is vacuuming.

“We have left Earth’s atmosphere,” says Oswald, as the credits on your eighth cartoon wind down. The seatbelts automatically release, the ends floating free. “You may move about the cabin.”

You move forward, and find a series of rooms. First, one full of stasis pods, set into the walls like crypts; then a galley kitchen, featuring two microwaves; then a rec room, its walls covered in brightly colored foam squares; then the science lab; then, at last, the command module. This has rows of forward-facing seats, like a school bus.

“Where are the controls?” someone asks.

“I am the controls,” says Oswald, soothingly. “I am also your captain. In the event that I am disabled, your first responsibility is to reactivate me, using the repair kit behind the red hatch to your right.”

One of you pops the hatch open, and takes out a plastic case. The case is hefty, and has a screen on top. A familiar face appears on it:

“It looks like you’re trying to reset the ship!” says Clippy, through a tinny speaker on the side of the box. Clippy’s speaking voice sounds like Jerry Lewis. “Would you like h-?”

You shove the box back into the compartment and slam the hatch.

“That concludes orientation,” says Oswald. “Please, make yourselves at home. Once we are past the orbit of the Moon, you will be put into cryosleep until we reach Mars.”

You stare out the windshield, into the blackness of space. On various monitors, you can see the Earth behind you, steadily growing smaller.

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Day 1 ends Tuesday at noon, EST, or when a majority kill vote is reached