The headpieces had been taken from the return module along with the body of the Elder and placed in a secured, custom-built container for a quick trip from the high desert, via roto-copter, to LAX where they were transferred to an unmarked tractor trailer and driven down Aviation Boulevard under police escort to a loading dock at NASA West, on the historic site known as Space Park.

A wing of one building had been rebuilt as the Mars Lab, the most expensive archaeological research lab in the world, isolated from the rest of the building, with a Class 1 clean room at its center. Inside this lab lay the corpse of the Elder in a glass chamber filled with atmosphere collected from the subterranean Martian city. Surrounding it were suites of rooms containing the most advanced CAT, MicroCT, and MRI scanners available. Though designed to enable the paleopathology of the Elder, the lab looked every bit like a modernist burial chamber—a glass sarcophagus surrounded by ceremonial anterooms.

Z walked at a brisk pace down a long hallway that zig-zagged through department after department to the rear elevator bank. She smiled at each person she met, enroute, and said hello to some. It was easier to acknowledge everyone than to endure the awkwardness of repeatedly watching people in self-conflict over whether to greet her or not. She took the elevator to the second floor, where she crossed the hallway into the lab. In a prep room, she changed into coveralls and walked to the examination room. The technician greeted her and directed her to the examination chair, positioned within a semicircle wall of URF metabolic readers and topped by a large, multi-armed medical sensor. The technician adjusted the chair to hold her head comfortably immobile. The doctor walked around from behind to face her, said good morning and explained the test to her.

“This will be our first chance to observe the interaction between your brain and the headpiece. We’ll be using a fMRI which we’ll place to encircle your head.” He pressed a control and a donut-shaped device lowered from the ceiling.

“While we’re scanning your brain, we’ll also be monitoring vital signs from the URF sensors to detect corollary changes. Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m going to start the scanner, check that our readings are good, then I’ll put on the headpiece.” He went to a small control room, behind a glass partition, and adjusted controls for what seemed to Z like a long time. Then he walked purposefully to where a headpiece lay on a foam pad, picked it up, and turned to place it across Z’s forehead.

Z held up her hand to block the doctor. “No, wait. I’d better do this. I know how to place the stones. I want to get this right.” The doctor gave her the headpiece and walked back to the control room. “Are you ready?” Z asked. “Here goes.”

She held the delicate-looking arc of metal to her forehead, then slid the stones smoothly backwards until they rested over her temples. She knew instantly that something was wrong; the stones usually exerted a steady pressure at her temples, as if gripping onto them. This time, there was brief pressure, then nothing.

“Did you get anything, Doctor?”

He replied through the intercom. “Yes, briefly. A hemodynamic response began in the frontal lobe and started to spread. Then it stopped.”

Z knew immediately what was wrong. She laid the headpiece in her lap as the doctor reentered the room.

“Do you know what happened?” he asked.

Z nodded her head. “We just proved one thing: the headpieces are not controllers, they’re receivers. The power is still on Mars.”

...

Though open only a few months, The Woodley School had already attracted media attention. Celeste had been told that a producer would be visiting for a pre-interview to help them frame the final on-camera interview. She wore her best Martian-styled suit and had borrowed an office where she could collect her thoughts and wait for the receptionist to alert her.

The tablet buzzed and the receptionist announced that the producer had arrived. Celeste picked up her tablet and, with a precise cadence, walked out to meet her. The producer was casually dressed and a little rumpled. She carried a bag containing a jumble of personal effects and multiple tablets. Celeste led the producer out to the central lounge, where they could talk while the students were in classes.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Celeste beamed as they entered the spacious, modern lounge; this was an important opportunity to show-off her perfect creation. “Look around you. Have you ever seen a school quite like this? Isn't it beautiful? We treat them like adults, not children. The day begins here, in the community lounge where the students are briefed on their lessons for the day and given a thought to help guide them in their learning.”

“And what do they learn?” the producer asked, clinically.

“The curriculum provides a broad education—math, science, history, civics, literature, philosophy, leadership, and life skills.” Celeste leaned toward the producer, fervor in her expression. “But it isn’t so much what they learn; it’s the perspective they get.”

“And what is that perspective?”

“That of an advanced culture. For example, news came out, last week, that Telomics had tested Einstein's brain tissue and found the marker. Everyone always thought he was from outer space anyway. But now we know for sure. So while we'll be teaching the students about how Einstein arrived at his theories, we’ll also be using his life as an example of how a Marked person with superior intellect had been relegated to menial work as a clerk because of the supposition of that era that all humans begin on an equal footing. Had they known he was Marked, they could have nurtured his talent and who knows what else he might have achieved? Telomics has published a list of historical figures who were Marked. They're adding to it every day and so we focus on figures from that list. We encourage the students to think of the figures as members of their family tree,” she concluded, with a self-satisfied smile.

The producer cocked her head quizzically, “What about historical figures who are not Marked? Do you ignore them?”

Celeste was unflapped by the question. “There are brilliant and notable people who are unmarked. We teach about them and we teach the students to look for the signs of brilliance and leadership even in unmarked individuals. Everyone contributes.”

“But the Marked students are separated from the general student population.”

“That's the foundation of the curriculum. It was in the recommendation by the analyst we brought in. We've spent thousands of years following the notion that we are all from the same developmental pool. That has been reflected in the way we organized institutions like schools. High performance was treated as an individual trait, possibly ignoring the genetic origins of that performance. All children were lumped-in together, so in collaborative situations the vision of one Marked student might be overturned or diluted by the will of a larger group from outside the genetic variant. But now we know that we didn't develop from the same pool and that raises the question we are trying to answer, here at The Woodley School: Would we get superior results by concentrating on this genetic group with roots in a civilization thousands of years older and more advanced than Earth's? We are trying to awaken genetic memories that have laid dormant and we feel it's worth disentangling the Marked students from the unmarked to see if that catalyzes the reawakening.” Celeste smiled, happy with her encapsulation, then stood. “Come, let's look-in on a class.”

The two went down a hall off the main lounge and Celeste stopped outside of a door. Turning to the producer, she whispered, “In here is a class focused on the principles of entrepreneurship. Our classes explore leadership and self-confidence—something that isn't part of the ordinary school focus.”

As they stepped into the classroom and stood in the back, the course Elder was finishing a statement about the balance of individual epiphany and group socialization. Then, seeing Celeste with the producer, he asked Chaz Woodley how the balance is negotiated.

“Would this be among Marked people or the mixed population?” Chaz asked.

“Let's keep it simple. Between Marked people.”

“First of all, the barriers to negotiating balance would be fewer because, due to our common origins, more members of the group would have arrived at a similar epiphany. Those who were of a different mind would be more willing to contribute aspects of their thinking to the whole as opposed to tearing down the original idea in order to replace it with their own. Also, because of our common origins, even those with a different idea would be more able to appreciate the innovation of the idea on the table.”

“And if dissent came from the outside?”

“We would respect the dissent, but... are you asking me how we would balance with the idea of an unmarked group?”

“Yes.”

“Like I said, we would respect the dissent, but would also need to factor in historical perspectives that may reflect a cultural knowledge base smaller than our own, not the product of the harmonious and advanced civilization that gave birth to us.”

Celeste nodded toward the Elder as she guided the producer back into the hallway.

“That was a pretty elaborate explanation, coming from a high school kid,” remarked the producer.

Celeste smiled, smugly. “Perform like athletes, reason like philosophers, and lead like generals, that’s what we like to say, here.”