Patrick was enjoying his scrambled eggs while he scanned the news. Z’s revelation about swallowing Mars soil traveled around the world in an instant and seemed to be fueling a growing mythology about her. She, alone, had seen the ancient Martian civilization, she had communicated with an avatar spirit, she had watched them orbit the Earth, she had witnessed the death of the Martians. She, alone, had been given that vantage of Mars, been guided through its culture and, out of longing for it, had made Mars one with her body.
At least that was the picture painted by the article in Patrick’s news feed. “Holy shit” was the only appropriate reaction he could muster. He was amazed by her ability, with every revelation about herself, to ignite an ever more ardent passion for everything Z.
At this point, post-mission, he would normally have been guiding an astronaut gently out of the dimming spotlight of public life into the obscurity of a NASA desk job and potentially another spot in the mission rotation. But with Z, he now found himself caught-up in an expanding mushroom cloud of fascination with her and the ancient Martian civilization, conflated with the fantasy world of The Red Planet. Z’s celebrity was so powerful that it blinded the world to the rest of the crew, and though they enjoyed some share of the spotlight, it was merely spare lumens reflected off their commander, who was now on everyone’s A-list.
Unfortunately, she was also on Patrick’s A-list, but he did not see a way that he could compete with the attention and opportunities now open to her. It made him wonder if he had agreed to an unholy bargain by allowing Triche access to Z, by cutting the sponsorship deal between NASA and World Media for Path of Discovery. Now, instead of guiding Z back to a desk job at NASA, he spent his time courting the indulgence of her agent, her publicist, her show producer, and her publisher just to make sure they didn’t devour the time in her work schedule.
At the moment his thoughts were drifting in and out of focus, Z plopped down in the booth and pulled-out her tablet. “Pat? I talked to my agent. He said that a big technology company wants me to speak to their employees.”
“When is it? Where is it?”
“It's in three weeks. They want to be able to announce it tomorrow.”
Patrick looked at their schedule. “We're doing supplier meet-and-greets Thursday and Friday of that week.”
Z shook her head. “They want me Wednesday. Can you move the Thursday appearance? I could fly out and be back for anything Friday.”
“But you don't even know where...”
“It doesn't matter. They're flying me in the CEO's sub-orbital. I can be anywhere in the world within a few hours. Please? Can you work it out? They really want me—and ‘want’ is spelled with dollar signs.”
“But tell me the truth. Is it the money or the sub-orbital?”
“To be honest, it's the sub-orbital. It's the closest I'll get to space this year.”
“I think I can arrange it. But give me a little time.” The thought did occur to Patrick that Z was an employee and that Sharp wouldn't want her doing anything but polishing the American Eagle. Patrick looked at it differently, though. Elizabeth was rare. She was willing to withstand the maelstrom and be the excuse for the whole world to go crazy. Even when she was on personal business, she made points for NASA. It was his job to make sure those opportunities happened.
London was to be her destination, and on the day of her departure, Patrick walked Z out onto the tarmac at the private terminal. Z rolled her bag. Patrick thought how odd it was that on private jets, the passengers still boarded by ramp stairs. On some days, that meant walking across 150-degree concrete. Meanwhile people flying economy-minus boarded through an air conditioned jetway. Fortunately, it was nice weather. A roto-copter, sleek, with dual rotors and a bubble cockpit, eased down near them.
Patrick looked with surprise at Z. “Wait. I thought you were going space plane.”
“Not from here.”
“I was hoping to get a ride around the block.”
She laughed. “Sorry. They couldn't land the sub-orbital here, so they've come to fetch me, take me to a spaceport and suit me up.”
A stylishly-suited woman exited the copter and walked authoritatively toward them. “Here they come,” Patrick said. “Message me from space.” Z walked out to meet the emissary who took her bag and escorted her to the copter.
A half-hour later, Z walked into a private hanger in the high desert. They took her clothes, gave her a full bodysuit and helped her dress for the flight. Three people helped her into a lightweight, neoprene and mesh flight suit. Three people—to put on a suit that was closer to footy pajamas than it was to the gear she wore on missions! This was fun. The flight suit was so lightweight and comfortable and stylish. She laughed at that. Stylish. She grabbed her bag with her tablet and wallet. They let her take it on board, but put it into a “stylish” zippered bag that kept small items from floating out into the cabin at apogee.
Six seats on the craft and nobody in it but her. The interior was space moderne with titanium accents. The seats were like Eames chairs. She took out her phone to snap a picture of the interior.
PHOTO MESSAGE: Elizabeth Nasri to Patrick Burke
Subject: Next Mission
Here Pat. I'm taking design notes for my next mission.
Z
In the few minutes before take-off, she pulled out her tablet and read the brief she'd been sent. Although she knew of Logisen from their work with NASA, she needed to be smart about the company she was speaking to. Logisen called itself The Sentient Systems Company. To put it another way, they made the infrastructure that managed every vehicle as well as the water, power, and lighting systems in the major cities of the western hemisphere and most of Europe. They had satellites, ground stations, sensors, and cameras everywhere to insure that autonomous systems of all shapes and types and duties never experienced a random moment. If someone needed an autonomous, they leveraged their network of partners to track the individual’s location and possible activity in order to pair them with the vehicle appropriate for their need. If the shipment of a manufacturing system was enroute to a factory on the outskirts of a major city, Logisen’s Sentient Supply Chain management would ensure that vehicles on the route would travel at consistent speeds, maintenance vehicles would not block streets, and traffic lights were timed to optimize the delivery time. This all came at a fee—and businesses were more than willing to pay it. Z looked around the inside of the cabin and wondered how many systems were aware of her trip to London.
Take-off was not as impressive as the NASA missions she had flown, where giant thrusters push a rocket through the sky with ten times the velocity of a bullet and it only takes a moment to cross the threshold of space. By comparison, the sub-orbital was a lazy, scenic cruise. First came the subsonic ascent to the upper atmosphere. Z felt like she was rising into heaven, not rocketing across the globe. Then came the fun part, the jets transitioned to rockets and pow, she felt the push back into the seat. The Earth receded, the sky grew dark blue, then black. She hadn't seen this view since her return shuttle from the mission.
The intercom came on. “Commander Nasri, would you like to float about the cabin? We have nearly 15 minutes weightless on this flight.”
Z replied, “That's not necessary, but thank you for asking.”
The descent was gentle compared to the shuttle—no shaking, no ionization; just a little noise while the Earth rose up to greet the ship. Through the small window, she could see France and northern Spain as they descended like a rock toward London. It wouldn't be until the final forty-thousand feet that the ship would begin to glide across the giant Thames Estuary, glistening with marshes and canals, toward the spaceport.
Within minutes, the runway was beneath them and the wheels were down. It was a leisurely experience compared to interplanetary atmospheric entry. Not once had Z wondered to herself if she was about to die. Poor civilians, she thought, they miss-out out on the Thrill Ride Through Hell. They don't know what they're missing.
As the ship taxied to a private pad, the intercom again came on. “Commander Nasri, we'll be coming back to assist you with a safety helmet for deplaning. Your clothes will be waiting in a dressing room in the hangar. Thank you for flying with us today. It was an honor to serve you.”
Z knew the whys behind the deplaning procedure with the bubble helmet. The ship was still hot and outgassing potentially lethal fumes from reentry. She grabbed her bag and stepped down the stairs. Walking alone toward her reception committee, she flashed back to her first trip by herself, as a teenager. She now felt the same release from scrutiny and she had to admit that it was Patrick's absence that gave her that freedom.
Out of the threesome there to meet her, an elegant man stepped forward, hands outstretched to help her remove her helmet. He handed it off to his assistants and extended a hand.
“Welcome to London, Commander Nasri. I'm Alonzo Gossfry, Marked. I'm Mr. Ross' Executive Assistant, EMEA.”
“Nice to meet you, Alonzo. Do you know my itinerary?”
“I do. After you change, we have a limousine that will take you to the hotel. How are you feeling? Any adverse effects from the flight?”
Z smiled, “None. It was quite a lazy ride. I'm awake and ready to go.”
“Excellent. Once we show you to your room, you can take time to freshen-up. We have an orientation scheduled for three o'clock. Some of our executives...”
Z didn’t mean to be rude, but she knew what was coming next. “Would like to meet me. Yes. I'm happy to.”
At the hotel, an assistant from the company took her bag to her room and she was served an herbal tonic Alonzo assured would rehydrate her. Then she was introduced to her valet, a young, slender woman with short, neat blond hair.
“I'm Samantha. Marked. Let me show you to your room and get you comfy. If there's anything you need, please let me know and I will take care of it.” They rode the elevator to a keyed-access floor. The door opened and they stepped into a foyer around which were five double doored entrances to suites. Samantha led Z to a corner suite and keyed her door open. They stepped into a living room with all the accoutrements one would expect, for the Prime Minister. Outside the windows stretched a spectacular view of the city, past St. Paul's. Samantha showed Elizabeth to the bedroom, opened the closet to show where Z's three outfits hung neatly in a space designed to hold a hundred or more.
“We installed an app on your tablet. If you want anything, just open the app and tap the call icon. Is there anything I can get you now?”
Z was more than a little curious about this app that had been installed, “No. I'm fine. Do you have a key for me?”
“Not necessary, Commander Nasri. If you want to leave, simply walk out the door. When you return, I'll be here to let you in. Please make yourself at home. I'll knock on your door in about an hour to take you upstairs to meet the executives.”
“Fine. I assume business casual is appropriate?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Z said as she watched the valet turn like a dancer and pad toward the door as if she expected to be observed. Just for a second, Z felt a tinge of unease and wished Patrick were there. He was wiser about corporate types. This felt very different from the VIP treatment she had received from the New Mars Conference. Even given the encounter with Triche, that experience had been gracious and she had felt valued. Here, she felt valued but more in the way an asset is valued, when held in a vault. Z corrected herself. She was learning that the lifestyles of the extreme rich could be strange and she told herself to focus on her work. She sat in one of the plush chairs and pulled out her tablet. There was the app. How did they do that without her giving permission? When did they do that?
Z had two stump speeches: one with visuals about the mission; the other without visuals that was about lessons learned. She was prepared to do either one, but nothing had been said yet about which one they wanted. In fact, she had been so excited by the flight and the speaker fee that she had neglected to get the particulars of the speaking engagement. She assumed that an employee audience would be anywhere from 300 to 1,000—the size of the audience didn't affect the delivery. She stood in the room, faced St. Paul's, and walked herself through both presentations.
Samantha returned just before the hour to collect her. They rode the elevator, in silence, up to the top floor. There, Samantha checked-in with a receptionist who directed them to a room at the far end of a hallway. Z wasn't sure, at this point, whether the whole parade of events wasn't an elaborate powerplay. She had heard of executives doing that, but had not had enough prestige from past missions to warrant competitive behaviors. At the door, she thanked and dismissed Samantha. She was going to let herself in.
Z swung open the door to a large, luxuriously-outfitted multi-purpose lounge, bright and airy, with a large conversation pit in the center and pods for collaboration around the periphery. In the flash of a second, she registered about two-dozen executives of many ethnicities, wearing extremely expensive casual clothes and chatting in a cocktail party manner. No heads turned.
I guess this is the meet-and-greet, Z thought. An athletic-looking woman in black immediately marched over and stuck out her hand.
“I'm Katya. Welcome Elizabeth. Can I get you a juice, a tonic, a glass of wine?”
“Soda water?”
Katya led Elizabeth over to a table and poured her a glass of bubbly water. Not a single person in the room seemed to notice her. “How was your flight? Good, I hope,” smiled Katya.
“Yes. Perfect. I enjoyed it.”
“Not as spectacular as you're accustomed to.”
“But impressive, nonetheless.”
Just then, the CEO, Julius Ross, entered. Z remarked cynically to herself that the powerplay continued. He had no doubt been notified that his guest had arrived and he could make his entrance. He was tall and slender, almost frail-looking. He walked across the room to a group and said a few words, then looked around until he saw Z. He smiled a warm smile, walked over and shook her hand.
“Thank you, Elizabeth, for joining us. We are happy you could carve-out the time.” He gestured to one of two chairs set at the edge of the conversation pit. “Have a seat.” At the moment Julius gestured Z to her chair, every executive in the room broke-off conversation and migrated to the concentric circles of sunken benches in the conversation pit.
Elizabeth affixed a pleasant smile to her face while her mind calculated the options. Photo shoot, out. Presentation? No. Friendly chat? TBD.
Julius, sat down and, reaching over to pat Z on the arm, began his introduction. “I think everyone knows Elizabeth. Right?”
People nodded. A man in the corner waved at her.
Julius gazed up at the ceiling as if collecting profound thoughts, then began. “We're in a state of perpetual change. We've been in this state since the beginning of the century. But I think it's fair to say that mere change is past us, now. We're moving into a new world of Rapid Reinvention. New technology. New social standing. A new relationship to the universe.” He paused, nodding his head gently as if taking in the import of his proclamations. “It's an exciting time. That's why I brought Elizabeth here. She's seen the things that are coming our way. I thought it would be enlightening to ask her a few questions. Then I want you all to join in.” He turned an expectant gaze to her. “Is that cool, Elizabeth?”
“It's cool,” she replied, trying not to chuckle at his strange anachronism.
“I'll start with the question that has been on my mind: You've said numerous times that the people on Mars formed a harmonious society. What key behaviors indicated harmony to you?”
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Z began what she thought would be a long, descriptive answer. “Yes, people seemed centered, at peace. There were stressful situations, but even then people seemed measured, if not calm. And I...”
Julius stopped her. “I understand. But I'm interested in the specifics you observed. There were no fights? Arguments? Not one?”
“No. I saw conversations, discussions, laughter. There was quite a bit of laughter.”
An executive stood as he spoke, “I'm sorry. Before we get into actions and their meanings, what exactly were you seeing when you wore the headpiece?”
“Ghosted people, walking through the city.”
The executive didn’t appear satisfied with Z’s answer. “Was it real? Was it a view into the multiverse? Or was it an induced hallucination?”
“My first reaction was that the headpiece showed me a parallel universe. But then I realized that the scenarios came to an end and looped; that each time I put on the headpiece, it began at a specific point. I realized I was watching an augmented reality recording of the entire city over a specific period of time.”
That wasn’t the response he was looking for. He looked dissatisfied and sat down.
Julius nodded calmly, “Okay. A recording. And you experienced this recording sol after sol, from different areas of the city. Correct?”
Choosing to omit her more vivid experiences, Z answered simply, “Yes.”
“And those multiple vantage points helped you arrive at this feeling of general harmony. What is it that defines harmony for you?”
Z observed the course of the interview. It was not following the usual pattern, and she was interested where it would go. “It's multi-layered. At the surface level, there was a lack of conflict. But I wouldn't say that because there was a lack of conflict there were no differences of opinion. The Martians were an advanced, expressive, and creative society. To achieve that, there must have been a diversity of viewpoints.”
“Why did these different viewpoints not create friction?”
“Good question. That leads to the next level. In the Martian city, things work. Now, that statement is a simplification, but it reflects a value system that says the most important goal is that things work for the majority of people, not that each individual gets to fight for their personal vision of how things should work.”
Julius lifted his hands in the air with mock surprise. “I'm not sure that I'd enjoy living with that, but let's go on.”
Z graciously smiled at Ross’ theatrics. “So, things work. And people worked together to make things work. There were definite hierarchies around tasks, and deference seemed to play a part. I couldn't investigate the nuances because I didn't understand the language they were speaking.”
Another executive interrupted Z. “And deference was the product of...”
“I couldn't tell you. Possibly the same factors as here on Earth.”
Julius touched Z gently on the forearm. “I want to ask you about the headpiece, and how technology fit into their society. We kind of like technology, here. Tell us about how the technology interfaced with your brain.”
“By chance,” Z smiled.
There was a little polite laughter. Julius stood up, walked over to the table and poured a cup of coffee while Z continued. “Seriously, I was imitating something I saw in a mural when I put on the headpiece. I thought it was jewelry.” There was a murmur in the audience as if people were surprised at her naiveté. “The headpiece naturally places two stones at your temples. That's just the way you wear it. Suddenly, you see the ghosts.”
Julius walked back to the chair, stirring his coffee. “You call them stones. Why?”
“We call them stones because they have the smooth, veined appearance of polished marble. They are in the shape of disks.”
And among the ghosts, others were wearing headpieces?”
“Everyone.”
“How did people use the headpieces?”
“The headpieces provided control over most devices and machinery. They were also communicators.”
“What was it like to control a machine, wearing a headpiece?”
“I never got to do that. My headpiece had only the function of replaying the recording for the wearer. But I saw others using the headpieces and manipulating virtual controls.”
“So your headpiece had a specific task. Other headpieces were tasked to each individual?”
“That's what it seemed. I couldn't get beyond the specific use designated for my headpiece.”
“Do you feel that each headpiece carried its own intelligence, or were they part of a larger control fabric?”
“I think they are interfaces. They aren't the brain.”
“What makes you think that?”
“When we first flew the drone into the city, it was black inside. Later, when we descended, something sensed us, identified us as life forms, and turned on the lights.”
Julius laughed at the simplicity of the scenario. “It turned on the lights?”
“Well, something did. It might have been a simple sensor, but if you combine the illumination with the function of the Conveyor with the headpiece recordings and the apparition of the Elder it seems to add-up to something more than a sensor.”
“And do you think this... neural fabric somehow played a role in creating harmony?”
“I can't say. My inclination as a human is to believe in free will.”
“But in this case, as you've said, free will of the individual seemed subordinate to the will of the majority. And, through the headpieces, could that majority have been formed and motivated by sentient computing?”
Z decided to give a courtroom answer, focused on his asking for her personal estimation, when she knew that was precisely one of the possibilities she wanted to investigate at the lab. “That, I don't know. We'd have to find that central brain first, and observe it, before I'd suggest it exerted control.”
“But, Elizabeth, what if the brain doesn't exist in a place? What if it exists everywhere?” The assembled executives suddenly broke out in cheers and applause.
Z noted the audience's reaction; it was an obvious play to their work and the crowd obeyed. “If you don't mind, Julius, I'd like to ask you something. What interests you more, the culture or the technology?”
“Good question. I'm interested in our future and how we survive on a hostile planet. I think that will take radical change and I'm not interested in perpetuating the same strategies that created this mess we're in. Julius looked directly at the audience to proselytize. “Rapid Reinvention. We have to become something very different from what we have been.” Then turning to Z in a more casual tone, “Mars may not provide the ultimate answer, but it was important to me to expose these executives to what you've experienced. You're giving us food for thought. And thought leads to progress.” Members of the audience nodded in agreement. “If you don't mind, I have one more request of you: I'd like to give each of my executives a chance to ask you a question before we wrap-up for this afternoon.”
Julius stood up, nodded to Z and left the room. She wasn't in a position to decline and that bothered her. The interview with Julius hadn't revealed any secrets, but she still felt uncomfortable about the way she had been led-in, purposefully unprepared for the situation. Now she was again being placed in a position she would never have agreed to if she had known in advance. She decided that greater evasion was warranted.
Some questions she was happy to answer, like the ones about her feelings interacting with the Elder and whether she could interact with any other avatars. But "I can't answer that" and "I don't know the answer to that" became her responses over and over as the executives pressed her for deeper information about the Conveyor; the design of the headpiece; the composition of the stones; the design of the Elder's antechamber; and the movement of people, goods, and materials through the city.
That evening, Z walked into a reception full of executives who largely ignored her. There was a moment or two where she still acted as if this were the traditional keynote speaker scenario. She made nice, she tried to start conversations but she was brushed off. Very soon, she took on a classic wallflower stance: back against the wall, surveying the crowd. Then she realized that she'd moved toward a corner, which she recalled was termed The Gunslinger's Seat, because no one could sneak up on the gunslinger and shoot him in the back. Just by chance, her eyes met with those of a young, posh-looking man. Rather than look away, as most had done, he bored into her, and then approached her, drink in hand. He smiled a disingenuous smile.
“Scared you, did we?”
Z was startled by his aggressiveness. “I don't know what you mean.”
“You thought it was smart to deflect like you did. You think none of us noticed? ‘I don't know’ is a pretty weak response for someone who calls themself a commander.”
Z looked directly into his pupils. “Sometimes it's the appropriate response...when you call yourself a Commander.”
“Commander of what? Your mission is over.”
Z saw the direction the conversation was going. “Okay. I get it. I'm sorry. I'm feeling tired from the flight today. It was nice talking to you. I have to say goodnight.”
As she turned to leave, she saw Julius walking toward her. He took her arm. “Commander, would you join me for a moment outside? You’ll have to excuse my employee. He is part of an elite team that’s prepping for the Mars Colony mission. Sometimes they get irritated at circumstances that block their progress.”
“You mean, ‘block their control.’”
“Commander, control is our profit model.”
After he had pulled her a few steps, Z looked him in the eye. “And what do you want from me? You led me to believe you were hiring me to give a speech; instead you put me under interrogation. This has been nothing if not transactional: you pay me a lot and you apparently expect something commensurate.”
Julius grinned. “First of all, I wouldn’t call it ‘a lot.’ Second, it was not merely transactional. Yes, it would have been nice if you’d spilled everything you knew to my new product team, but I’m not disappointed that you chose not to. Weakness isn’t valued here. You see, Elizabeth, I want you to partner with us someday. Someday soon. You may not know how the headpieces work, or if the stones at your temples are anything more than bloodstone, but you know what it’s like to be the oracle from a place no one else on planet Earth has ever been.” He released her arm and turned to face her. “That’s where Logisen is going.”
Z took-in his calm, predatory visage.
“Think about working with us,” he concluded.
Z studied him for a moment. Just as she was about to dismiss Julius’ offer outright, in favor of NASA, she reminded herself that Sharp was no less manipulative. She nodded her head at Julius, then turned and walked toward Samantha, who was waiting for her in the elevator lobby. She was exhausted. She felt like Julius wanted to own her so he could own her secrets, and that made her regret being so accommodating to him with her assessment of the Martians.
Samantha had changed into a more elegant outfit, appropriate for the evening reception that she, surely, had not been invited to attend. It was a satin, clingy dress and short jacket that flattered her figure. When the elevator arrived at her floor and they stepped into the foyer, Elizabeth noted a handsome, muscular young man outside her door. Security? He, too, was immaculately tailored in a suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow hips. He stepped forward to greet Z. “Commander Nasri. I'm Philip, Marked. An honor to serve you.”
This was beginning to annoy Z. She hoped it wasn't what she thought, but she knew better. Samantha keyed open the doors to the room and both she and Philip entered with Z.
Philip went to the bar. “Would you like me to mix you a drink?”
“No thank you. I'll make my own.”
“This is a full bar. Ice below,” he said, stepping away. Samantha and Philip stood side-by-side in the middle of the living room, then he added, “Commander Nasri, would you like help with your nightclothes or toilette?”
“No thank you.”
They continued to stand in the middle of the room. “Are you sure there isn't anything else you'd like?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
Samantha replied. “Good then. If there's anything you'll want assistance with, later, we'll both be outside, at your service.”
Z dipped her head toward them in dismissal. “That's reassuring. Thank you.”
With that, Samantha and Philip left the room and closed the door behind themselves. At last, thought Z. Then she reached for her tablet and noticed her hand was shaking. She started the tablet and was about to message Patrick, then stopped. They were, no doubt, monitoring her wireless.
The next morning, Z packed her bag, opened her door and strode past Samantha on her way to the elevator. She would meet Alonzo in the lobby. But when she got to the foyer, she found she could not call an elevator until Samantha had slowly walked over and keyed the call buttons.
In the car on the way to the airport, Z and Alonzo were alone.
“Alonzo. Marked. I have one question and I think you owe me an honest answer. What's this Marked shit?”
“It's his new division. He is Marked and every employee picked from the ranks of Logisen has been genetically screened for the marker. It's Julius' experiment. Can a company of Marked employees find a way to quickly transfer Martian technology to Earth?”
“How does it feel to you, being a part of that?”
Alonzo replied matter-of-factly, “I feel lucky.”
“You think.”
...
Patrick was at the spaceport in the high desert to meet Z. From there, it would be a short distance to their first meet-and-greet of the day. He felt the hot, dry air in his face and looked down the shimmering tarmac at the row of hangars. This was the original spaceport, predating Spaceport America. It was the no-frills skunk works where the first privately-funded craft had gone sub-orbital and it held a legendary status among space geeks, much the same as Edwards Air Force Base held for aviation buffs. Permission to land was not open to just anyone. Even Julius Ross, with his wealth, couldn't get permission to land here, but Elizabeth Nasri could. Patrick watched the dot appear in the sky, become an aircraft, land in the distance and taxi for ten minutes to the flight line. A steward placed her suitcase and clothes bag a safe distance from the plane and Z descended the stairs.
Patrick couldn't help but find comedy in the sight of a flight-suited, helmeted figure trudging toward him pulling a wheeled suitcase. She walked past him without breaking stride and headed for the hangar to change.
When she reappeared, still dragging her suitcase but dressed like a human, she looked solemn.
“How was it?” he asked, then immediately knew the answer. “What's wrong?”
Z looked beyond him across the lake bed at the barren crags, then down at her feet. Then she put her arms around him and gave him a hug. He hugged back.
“I'm glad you're here,” she said. “Let's go.”
As unspecific as Z’s hug had been, Patrick still knew something had gone off track. By now, he had seen Z in almost every emotional state, but he had never seen her look dispirited before. He decided to let it go, she would talk when she was ready. His job was to focus her on creating a special memory for the top execs at the supplier that engineered Cupid. And today, he also had to drive—no autonomous vehicles allowed, only NASA clear cars; too much of a data security risk.
It was the first time he had spent with her in months that she never checked her messages. Z stared out the window for most of the twenty-minute trip and, by the time they arrived outside the concrete tilt-up building that housed Cupid’s parents, she had rebooted. She crossed the parking lot with a crisp step, pulled open the front door with authority, and cheerfully greeted the receptionist, who jumped to his feet when he recognized her.
He led Z and Patrick back to a loading dock, where a group of middle aged engineers in budget dress clothes waited nervously for her. An American flag hung against a wall, flanked by the mission logos of Cupid and Mars Habitat 3.
Z beamed as she walked over to them, her heels clacking and echoing off the polished concrete floor. After shaking each person's hand and listening to their awkward introductions, she pulled up a folding chair and they all sat down together in a campfire circle. They brought her bad coffee and same-day donuts while she praised them for their work, described the beauty of watching Cupid glide up into the thin atmosphere above Arsia Mons, and recounted the shock she felt when she first saw the scan that revealed the Martian city.
An older engineer with a bristle moustache noted, “Oh, that wasn't us. The scanner was from Berkeley. They came up with that, we just mounted it.”
Z enjoyed his honesty. “No matter. Without Cupid, we would never have known the city was there. The whole world is in your debt.”
Boy, Patrick thought. Was that a moment they'd never forget? Those words, coming from her, were the greatest compliment they would ever hear. As he watched their geeky enthusiasm while showing Z around the shop, explaining the designs for the next generation Cupid and taking photos with her, Patrick realized that the time he had spent with Z, today, was probably a moment he'd never forget, either.
They walked back to the clear car, waving goodbye to the group. Sill looking straight ahead, Z quietly said, “I needed that. It was like taking a shower to wash the filth off me.” Z opened the trunk, reached into her suitcase and pulled-out her tablet. One entire end of it was covered in electrician's tape. Then she opened the passenger door and got in beside Patrick.
Patrick looked at the tablet with surprise, “What happened? Did you drop it?”
“I opened it and pulled the battery. As soon as we can, I want to give this to security. There's an app on this I want quarantined from the data and tracked for activity.”
“So, what happened? I expected you to return from the trip, giddy like a little kid from your sub-orbital.”
“Pat, it was the strangest situation I've been in. It felt off from the moment I landed, but got worse. They planted the app. Got past my security and put it there without my permission.”
“How'd you find out about it?”
“They told me.”
“Wow. Sneaky.”
“Don't be a doofus. This app was supposed to be a concierge caller, but you and I both know...”
“Innocent things can have nasty intent.”
“But that isn't even the worst of it. My big employee presentation? Twenty-five employees. Do you know how many thousands of dollars in fee that is per employee?”
“I don't want to know. It might make me insecure.”
“It was an ambush. They led me on to think it was a regular meeting, but it was me, in a room with the CEO—this guy Julius—and this hand picked bunch of employees.”
“And they were all Marked.”
“Bingo. And my interview with Julius was innocuous enough, although it felt a little prosecutorial. But then he springs a trap on me. ‘I want you to sit here and be grilled by my executive team.’ And he leaves.”
Patrick nodded. “I'll just step outside while the sharks feed. Correct?”
“Correct. They wanted secrets and they felt they were entitled to them. I fought back. I wasn't going to tell them anything. After that, the environment got really weird.”
“I can see why you were off your game when you landed.”
“Here's the thing. The CEO takes me aside after his executives treat me like shit and tells me ‘Control is our profit model.’” She put her head in her hands and shook it. “What the fuck does he mean by that?”
“Logisen. The company that controls anything with a chip in it, everywhere in Europe and the Americas.”