Z stood once again in the control center of the City. Around her bustled bronze-skinned Martian technicians. The light from the panoramic wall screen reflected off her clear helmet and accented her toned body in the tight, grey and black EVA suit she wore. Z paid little attention to the technicians around her, she was engrossed in the scene unfolding on the screen.
“I felt something was odd even before I realized that the night side of the Earth was completely black.”
Z’s eyes, wide with amazement, stared upward at the images. “It took me a moment, then I understood: I was looking down on ancient Earth from orbit.” Her lips parted. She brought her hand to her heart as her chest heaved. “I was watching the colonization of my planet from a Martian spaceship.” The video paused.
The night crept in through the windows of Triche’s dark office. The light of the monitor washed onto her face as she manipulated the rough edit of the newest episode of Path of Discovery. She smiled with satisfaction at her star performer. For someone with an MBA, a PhD, and four cumulative years in space, Elizabeth polished-up nicely as an actress.
Triche’s platinum assistant had been almost unnoticeable walking through the darkness, except for the swish of its tailored pant suit. “Ms Katya Temple, from Logisen, to see you.”
“I wasn’t expecting anyone. Tell her I’m in a meeting.”
“I asked her the purpose of her visit. She said she was here to determine how many zeros to put into the funds transfer.”
Triche was not amused by her visitor’s theatrics. Everyone at Logisen seemed to have adopted Ross’ hammerhead style, she judged. “Tell her I can see her in about twenty minutes.”
Triche sneered and gently shook her head. Logisen assumed they had power because they moved things around; she, on the other hand, moved hearts and minds. She loaded the Crowley footage from the penultimate episode of Path of Discovery.
On her screen, Crowley strode confidently into a crowd at an election rally in Boston. It had rained an inch each hour for the previous 20 hours, and had stopped only moments before the presidential candidate arrived. Excited supporters filled a plaza that was two-inches deep in standing water. Crowley, suit wet to the knees, stopped several times to shake hands and wave at people.
The narrator began, “Senator Crowley entered the presidential race with the most unlikely coalition America has seen in decades. He believes time is running short for America to adapt to the new reality of a hostile climate and for the current administration to break through the political gridlock that has paralyzed our response. His solution? A bipartisan caucus of Marked politicians, pushing through legislation to relocate vital infrastructure and send aid to suffering communities.”
Triche watched him mount the steps to the podium, pause to smile at the crowd, hold his palms upward toward the rainless sky, and beam. “I hope this is a sign.” The crowd cheered. “For too long our politics have been sullied by infighting and territorialism. The time has come to usher in a new era, characterized by harmony and cooperation, built on thinking thousands of years more advanced than our own, dedicated to a society that works for all. I promise everyone, Marked and unmarked, that your lives will be better under my administration.” Again, the crowd cheered. Next came the interview where Elizabeth asked him about the inspiration for his candidacy. Crowley looked surprised, then smiled broadly. “Why Commander Nasri, are you fishing for a compliment? Because it was you! You are my inspiration. It was your descriptions of how everything in the City of Spirits worked for the good of all that inspired me to form the Marked Caucus.”
“But the financial inspiration came from somewhere else, I’m sure,” Triche sneered. “And how much funding will you divert to keep out the heat refugees from the south?”
When twenty minutes had elapsed, the glistening assistant escorted Katya into the office. Triche looked past her screen at her uninvited visitor. Katya held a box before her as if it contained the communion host, placed it gently on Triche’s desk, and sat.
“You bring me a gift?” Triche asked.
“The gift has zeros,” Katya responded. Then, gesturing to the box, “This is the reason for the gift.”
Triche opened the box, raised an eyebrow, and lifted the thin wire headband. “And this?”
“This is the product we want to launch at the New Mars 3 Conference. We are willing to pay whatever you want for the platinum sponsorship, provided we can reveal this product and sell it there.”
Triche looked at Katya with no emotion. “The platinum sponsorship is filled.”
“Then I’m sure you employ all kinds of agencies who can dive into the periodic table and identify another, more valuable element to name a sponsorship after.”
Still dangling the headband from her fingers, Triche volleyed, “To what purpose? Is this a toy, a trinket you want to push? The New Mars brand is more valuable than anything you could pay. So, please, try to convince me to let you write a lot of zeros.”
“This is the invention that will end the need for devices; that will provide the wearer with ultimate control, ultimate knowledge, and ultimate connection, without need for this,” she said holding up a palm-sized tablet. “Or that,” she said, pointing at Triche’s desk screen. “Imagine the power of Logisen at the command of any Marked person wearing this. We call it a ThreadBand. It is the thread that connects your most valuable target audience.”
“You mean the more valuable fraction of our total audience. So this only works on Marked foreheads?”
“It reads your biometrics to confirm your identity, then your Telmara account unlocks it.”
“And then it reveals a cornucopia of delights, I’m sure.” Triche turned the device in her fingers, then tried unsuccessfully to deform it.
Katya laughed. “You can’t fault the manufacture. You will be launching a quality product.”
Triche smirked and put the device back into its box. “I still don’t understand how you hope to succeed with this by locking out an enormously important segment of your market.”
“Because it will become less and less important.”
Stolen novel; please report.
“Total audience is important to me. Marked and unmarked both watch our programming, purchase from our partners, and attend our conference. I don’t think it is in our interests to imply endorsement by launching a product that only a minority of our audience can use. Besides, I have a much more impressive centerpiece planned for this Conference.”
...
The office was empty. It was late and Patrick knew Z had to be back from London. If there is any place where a call could be secure, this is the place to call from, he thought. “Call Elizabeth Nasri,” he said into the air. She picked up almost immediately.
“Z. It’s Pat. I need to talk to you about something.”
“I need to talk to you. I was just going to call, but let’s not talk on the tablet.”
“Definitely not. I'll get a car and be right there.”
“I'm not at my condo anymore. I'll send directions in a secure message. Don't get an autonomous. Get a clear car and drive yourself. Also, leave your tablet.”
“Got it. See you soon.” Patrick hung up and put his tablet in the desk. Their brief conversation confirmed what he had feared: things were heating up around Z. Someone was trying to get to her—probably someone from Logisen. She had had that strange meeting where they hacked her tablet… and she’d just had another meeting with them, or at least that was his guess.
All this time, he had only seen Z from NASA’s perspective, as a public relations gold mine. Now the most celebrated astronaut in the history of the program, she had also captured the hearts of people around the world with that Nasri charm and her unique personal story. And he had only been concerned with getting her to appearances, making sure she was prepped, and keeping Sharp off her back. He had focused on the normal NASA protocols for an astronaut returned from a mission. He had been completely blind to the secrets she carried in her head; her unique experience with a technology everyone wanted. Z was right: he had to think bigger than NASA.
He grabbed a car from the pool and headed up the coast. The long drive took Patrick up into the Malibu hills. The street ended at a wall with a stainless steel solid gate. In the misty evening air, Patrick could see a ribbon of blue light running along the capstones of the wall. That light, he thought, when broken by anything larger than a cat, probably tipped-off the Malibu police.
Patrick pressed the call button and, after the house AI cross-referenced his biometrics, drove through the open gate into a steel pen. The gate closed behind the car, a few seconds passed, probably to scan for unauthorized hitchhikers, then the inner gate slid open and he drove into the courtyard. When the front door opened he could see Z in a loose track suit standing at the top of a short flight of stairs. Her hair hung in a wavy tousle.
Patrick walked toward the entrance and stopped at the foot of the steps. “You’ve been out of touch for a while. What did I do?”
Z gave the slightest smile as she looked down at him. “It seems that every time I go somewhere without you, I get in trouble.”
He started up the stairs. “And just what does trouble mean, this time?”
She gave him a hug when he reached the door then led him into the house. The entry had a high ceiling, with an artist-designed chandelier hanging at its center. Beyond the entry, a spacious living room looked out past a pool and manicured grounds, down the coast toward Santa Monica.
“This can't be from your speaking fees.”
“No, I could never afford this. There are advantages to those Cartier-bedazzled cocktail parties, though. A friend I met at one is letting me house sit while he's off shooting something.”
“Nice friend.” Patrick’s gaze wandered across all the interior design embellishments that wealth allowed and landed on Z. “What’s happening here, Z? High security house? No tablets? Clear cars?”
Z looked at him through a tumble of hair. “I’m afraid I need this level of security these days. Join me in a drink?”
“Whiskey, please.”
Z walked to the back of the living room to a recessed bar where she poured him an expensive whiskey, rocks. “So, what is it that you wanted to talk about?” she asked, sitting down and handing him the glass.
“You first. What trouble are you in?”
“No. You called. You go first.”
“Do you remember Sefa? Iosefa?” Patrick began.
“Of course I do. He’s the data scientist who identified the Martian variant.”
“Have you ever met him?”
“No. But you have,” Z said, cracking a smile.
“Yeah, well that’s part of this. He came to my house a couple of nights ago to tell me he’s getting muscled-out of Telomics because he isn’t Marked.”
Z’s smile disappeared. “Sounds like the work of some people I’ve run into.”
“Funny you should say that, because he began spinning this story about secret sales to governments around the world, dictators consolidating power around being Marked or unmarked. Then he said something big was going on—and that you knew about it.”
Z stood and turned to face Patrick, still seated on the couch. “A couple of days ago, I was rerouted on my way to the airport from World Media.”
“Not good. Rerouted where?”
“I was taken to an abandoned warehouse district. I met a man who said he was a former US Intelligence agent. He said the same thing as Sefa: something big is going on. That’s all he said.”
“So he went through all of that just to drop a clue?”
“No, he warned me to watch certain people. Then he politely made me an offer I can’t refuse. He said he would need my help, someday.”
“So, are you going to help him?”
“Not sure. He’s an Earther—and I have other considerations.” She turned her back to Patrick and looked out at the distant lights of Santa Monica. “Pat, I have a ticket to Mars. Logisen promised me.”
Patrick felt the shock shoot through his body. His stomach tightened. He stared at the floor. “You can’t be thinking of…”
She turned back to him. “Why shouldn’t I? What reassurance have I gotten from NASA? I’m getting tired of Sharp. He’s just playing me—and every day he waits is another day I can’t spend training for a mission.”
Patrick threw back his drink. “What if I could get an answer to you?”
“Good luck, Pat. Unless he says yes—and I’m not convinced he will—I’m leaving.”
“You would join the company that hacked you, the people you called filth?”
“I’ve learned more about them, since then. They are doing incredible work. They understand the significance of what I’ve found. They’ve promised me complete independence.”
“Until they get their hands on the Martian technology….”
“They’re sending me back to Mars. Guaranteed. What’s the counter offer from Sharp?”
Patrick sighed in resignation. “Okay. Point made. But if you go to Logisen, what happens to you and me? Who will have your back there? Heck, who will have my back if you aren’t around? Sefa asked me if I was Marked. He said my job was at risk if I wasn’t.”
Z looked sadly at Patrick. She had one secret she didn’t want to tell him. “You stay with me. I can take you with me—but I’m not sure that’s very reassuring; both Marked and unmarked have made their demands and I’ll be a target if I don’t deliver.”
Patrick thought about their world and all the good things in it that were going terribly wrong. “This isn’t what you signed up for, is it?”
“It isn’t what you signed up for, either,” Z replied. She took his glass and, in a cavernous, silent living room, refilled it. When she returned, she cracked a weak smile and toasted, “To the thread that binds us.”