The saucer hit Main Street with a thud and a his
s, like a soda can dropped from orbit.
It rolled to a stop in front of the Maple Street
Diner, steam hissing from its seams.
The diner’s bell jingled. A man in a shimmering
silver jumpsuit staggered out, blinking at the c
ornfields and the confused waitress who dropped
her tray.
“Where is the nearest interstellar port?” he ras
ped.
A farmer squinted. “You the new guy from the oil
company?”
The alien blinked again. “Affirmative.”
He was given a hat, a trench coat, and the keys
to a mansion that hadn’t been lived in since the
town’s founder vanished in 1929.
They called him “Mr. X.”
He had no idea who he was, but he had a credit c
hip that never ran out and a voice that made peo
ple nod like he’d always been in charge.
He bought the town’s failing soda bottler.
By Tuesday, it was the topselling pop in three c
ounties.
By Friday, he was on the cover of Retro Weekly a
s “The Martian Billionaire.”
No one questioned the name.
Especially not Ellie, the college journalism stu
dent sent to interview him.
She found him in the bottling plant, floating th
ree feet off the ground, humming a tune that mad
e the machines whirr in harmony.
“I thought billionaires wore suits,” she said.
He looked down. “I’m updating my brand.”
Ellie scribbled notes. “And your name is…?”
He paused. “Xander.”
“Like from Mars?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re hiding something.
”
“No,” he said, too quickly. “Just a humble entre
preneur.”
She smirked. “Uhhuh. Like that explains the trac
tor beam you used on the mayor’s Buick last nigh
t.”
He coughed. “That was… a misunderstanding.”
He didn’t know why he liked her. Maybe it was th
e way she called his bluff without blinking.
Or maybe it was the way his heart raced when she
walked in, which was weird, because he was pret
ty sure Martians didn’t have hearts.
Then came the letter.
It arrived in a rocketshaped envelope.
RETURN IMMEDIATELY. YOUR MEMORY WILL RESTORE.
He stared at it, then at Ellie, who was now his
unofficial biographer and occasional date to the
drivein.
“You okay?” she asked.
He handed her the letter.
She read it. “So… you’re not from around here?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“Martian?”
“Yes.”
She snorted. “Of course. I knew it.”
He looked at her. “You’re not… surprised?”
“I majored in journalism,” she said. “I’ve seen
weirder headlines.”
He smiled. “I don’t want to go back.”
She folded the letter. “Then don’t.”
But the town had other plans.
A scout from the NFL showed up, asking if Xander
would fund a new football team.
He said yes.
They named it the Maple Street Meteorites.
He designed the uniforms with glowing shoulder p
ads.
The first game was televised.
Midway through the third quarter, he leapt over
the bleachers to catch a rogue pass.
He hovered.
Then flew.
The crowd erupted.
News vans showed up the next day.
Reporters asked questions.
He answered them with riddles and disappeared in
a puff of glitter.
Ellie found him packing a suitcase made of moons
tone.
“Time to go?” she asked.
“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said.
She stepped closer. “Or maybe you finally found
a place that’s yours.”
He looked at her.
The doorbell rang.
Mayor Thompson stood there, holding a football h
elmet.
“We need you for the championship,” he said.
“And the press?”
“Told ‘em you’re eccentric. Rich people are allo
wed to be.”
Xander looked at Ellie.
She raised an eyebrow. “You in?”
He nodded. “I’m in.”
The championship game was held under the stars,
with the whole town watching.
He flew, he passed, he scored.
And when the final whistle blew, he landed next
to Ellie and kissed her under the stadium lights
.
The photo went viral.
“Martian Touchdown: The Billionaire Who Came to
Earth and Stayed.”
He never remembered his real name.
But he didn’t need it.
He had a town, a girl, and a soda empire.
And a secret he kept to himself.
He wasn’t from Mars.
He was from the Andromeda Cluster.
But “Martian Billionaire” sounded better on head
lines.
