In the crowded dressing room I overheard Daniel say, “I don’t remember the trip here.”

This was between Act IV and V, and the audience beyond the curtain was enraptured. Enthralled, even. But my Macbeth was on the verge of a crisis. Right before the final act. This could get really, really bad. I had five minutes to get this resolved and his ass back onstage in top form.

Daniel was at the big vanity, his crown set aside, his armor glinting in the lights bounding the mirror. I pulled a chair beside and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We need your bravado for scene 3 but, but,” I raised a finger for emphasis, “tinged with a touch of doubt behind your eyes.”

Daniel rolls his eyes like I’m patronizing him. “Thanks for the pep, but I know. I know. This isn’t my first Shakespeare bit, for chrissakes, Roger. Why the hell don’t I remember the trip from Earth to here?” he asked, tapping the faux wooden top of the vanity.

“Focus, Daniel, focus, we’re about to raise curtain for the last act and I need you in 11th century Scotland, not in 22nd century Red City, Mars. Got me? What the hell are you doing here when you need to be there?”

“I’m there, I am. All right? But I need to figure this out, it’s distracting me.”

“A distraction?” I cried as I rose from the chair. “Since when has anything got between Daniel Visser and his role?”

“This weird gap—”

I grasped him by the shoulders, cutting him off. “You have a wall filled with awards, an Oscar in your pocket, and you’ve nailed title roles in six Shakespeare plays and you’re one act from the seventh. You are Daniel Visser. Hero of aspiring actors across the System, beloved by billions. You don’t have meltdowns over some memory blip. You nail the part. And in four minutes, you’ll wear that crown and face down Macduff as king of Scotland.”

He nods, face still scrunched in worry. “Was I in a hibernation pod for the trip? I don’t remember climbing into one.”

I had to straighten him out, and quickly.

I unsheathed an extra’s wooden stage sword and with a war cry struck the vanity mirror. Daniel leapt from his chair to escape the shattering glass.

As the dressing room emptied I stabbed the sword in Daniel’s direction every other word, “Are you having some sort of crisis on me? Right before the final act?” Was I loud enough to be heard beyond the curtain? I hoped not. “How dare you jeopardize this show! You may be the star, the superstar, but damn you, you prima donna fool! I’m the director and I won’t allow you to ruin my career or any other actors’ here! Got that, pretty boy? Quit being stuck on yourself. Concentrate!”

His breath huffed rapidly and his eyes were wide and wild. I knew right then no one had given him a director’s rage moment. At least not since before his name had become a brand.

Daniel’s eyes narrowed. His breath came under control. On the table filled with catered snacks and drinks, he grabbed a water bottle and chugged.

I had him.

He slammed the bottle down, sloshing droplets on the cheese plate. He crossed his arms. “No one talks to me like that.” His voice was level, even, measured. The man was cool under pressure. Famously so.

“Before first rehearsal here on Mars the last thing I remember is a checkup at a clinic. On Earth. I just can’t push this out of my head.”

“Are you ready for the curtain or no?”

Daniel was hesitating.

I allowed the sword to clatter to the floor. I took his chair by the back and dumped off the glass.

“Have a seat. We got two minutes left.”

Daniel sat, much to my relief.

I pulled my chair to face him. He was probably suspecting something ever since the end of Act I and it gnawed and gnawed at him. The interval had taken extra minutes as my Lady Macbeth’s costume needed a tailor touch-up. Daniel had a dangerous moment to reflect. Now, I had no choice. “There was no trip, Daniel. An imprint of your mind was transmitted here and placed in a ready clone of your body.”

He nodded. I could see it all click behind his eyes.

“We don’t get superstars out here. But this way, we get a taste. And what a taste it’s been.” I pointed to the far wall, toward the stage, toward the audience beyond. “They’re out there having the time of their lives. This new theatre, the biggest on Mars—we can still smell the paint, yes? You’re opening this theatre with a beloved Shakespeare play. I showed you the news piece before curtain.” My hand traced the headline in the air. “‘The Biggest Acting Talent Ever to Grace This Planet.’”

Daniel stayed silent and stared at the glass on the floor as the bell chimed for the final minute before curtain.

I went to the vanity, took the crown, placed it back on his head. “Are you ready now?”

He stood. “They’ll remember this one.”

“Give it to me. Give me that final line.”

He smiled, then his face distorted to rage and he snarled, “Lay on, Macduff, and damn'd be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’”

As he marched out of the dressing room, I clapped him on his armored shoulder.

I followed out to the wings. His head was back on right, I was sure. In the zone.

This was the final act, and MacDuff’s steel sword would soon slip between his ribs and into his heart. At Macbeth’s—Daniel’s—final moment, I knew I would weep for the tragic hero.