The next day, Z was back at the Mars Lab, suited-up in coveralls and booties. The early scans and materials analysis of the headpieces were in and she wanted an update on what they had found. The chief materials engineer pointed to a monitor on the worktable between them. On it was a scan of a headpiece stone. He scrolled through slices of the scan to reveal different concentrations of veining. “What you call ‘the stones’ are not stones at all. They are a porous composite interlaced with filament. The filament looks like veins in the stone, but it is actually a conductor—a number of micro-electrodes.”
Z lifted the headpiece that had been lying on the worktable and turned it in her fingers, seeing the two marbled circular plates differently for the first time. She looked up at the engineer. “Electrodes? A circuit?”
“In essence,” he replied. “The vein is made up of multiple electrodes that probably connect with different areas of the brain. Your brain is the circuit and the circuit is actuated by the electrodes.”
“And the wire that connects them?”
“We think the wire arc is a receiver/transmitter. We may need to observe you wearing it in different situations to monitor how it tries to activate when you put it on. I wish we had had an fMRI on the mission so we could have observed it in action.”
“Is there a chance of making a working replica?”
“The closest material we have to the wire is graphene. Strong, light, electroconductive. I think we can duplicate the stones and their filament pattern with 3D printing. But to answer your question, yes, we can make something that looks like a headpiece. Will it function? No.”
Z studied the headpiece in her hand while she weighed the direction she wanted to take. “This is good work. Baby steps, but big strides. I can’t help but feel that the form factor is important. When I put it on my head, it’s how everything aligns that triggers it to start up. It isn’t just the components, it’s the interrelationship of the components. So as you prototype, you’ll need to replicate the original as closely as possible.”
Z felt her earpiece vibrate. It was security, with news about the app on her tablet. Z went down to the Security office, where Patrick was waiting. The IT Security Director led them over to a work bench and held-up Z’s battered tablet.
“So, first of all, it was a good thing you took your private tablet and not the office tablet.”
“Following procedures,” she acknowledged.
“Well you made this a lot simpler. And it's a good thing you disconnected the battery when you did. If you'd brought that inside our network, we probably would have had problems.”
“Like what?”
“When I fired-up your tablet that app started looking for vulnerabilities, trying to break into the network. And every time it got quarantined, it morphed into another form. Bing, bing, bing—one thousand times a nanosecond.”
“How do you know it isn't breaking through?”
He shrugged. “Ppft. From what you described, Elizabeth, I knew to be careful. I put this in the vault before I connected the battery. That security is so opaque, nothing can see through it.” He held out the tablet for Z. “This is pretty well worthless. Do you want this brick or should I recycle it?”
Z looked at it. “Fried?”
“Deep.”
Z shook her head. “Okay. I’ll get another. Thanks.” As she turned to leave, the Director caught her arm.
“Elizabeth, I think you want to escalate this. I had to file a report. There’ll be follow-up.”
Two hours later, Z and Patrick caught the Administrator on video during a break in a Senate committee meeting. Z described the speaking engagement at Logisen from trepidatious beginning to weird ending and added to the Security Director’s report about the app on her tablet.
Sharp rubbed his forehead, then his eyes, then looked into the camera. “Logisen. We just notified them about the malware. They were ‘shocked,’” he said with a mocking expression. “They said they were addressing a wave of hacks and it may have broken into the concierge app.”
Patrick winced. “You don’t believe them, do you?”
“I mostly think it’s bullshit, but part of me kind of believes them. Something has been rustling through servers all over the world. Command and control, databases, archives, cloud infrastructure. Mapping systems on a large scale. I call it the evil librarian; it sorts through shit, puts it back unaltered, then leaves quietly by the front door.”
“That sounds suspicious, but not sinister,” Z remarked. “Whatever was in my tablet wasn’t polite; it threw furniture around, then burned my notebooks, then jumped-out through the window.”
Sharp shook his head. “Yeah, but yours was stopped. Evil librarian has sidestepped any security in place. That’s scary. So, Logisen has to be on full alert. And while I’ve got you, there’s more about Logisen. I just spoke with a Senator Crowley, today.”
Z looked at Patrick.
The Administrator continued, “They’ve enlisted him to help them get direct access to a headpiece. They want to run some tests to see if their AI can interface with it.”
Z sat straight up, “You didn’t promise anything, I hope.”
“I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. You have the headpieces tied-up with your team for the next three months. But after three months, they’ll force access if they have to. Logisen is part of our next mission; they need to prepare. So, in the meantime, think about sharing your discoveries with them. Now, I have to get back into my meeting. Thanks for the update.”
Z closed the tablet. She was agitated. “They shouldn’t have access. If they were above board, they’d have gone through the correct channels.”
Patrick shrugged. “In a way, they are going through normal channels for a supplier: first, put in the official application, then try to turn someone on the inside while they pressure a Senator to pressure us. It’s competition.”
“It’s not right! These aren’t just rocks; these are the relics of an advanced civilization. We don’t know how powerful the headpieces are. Pat, toward the end, the headpiece was reaching way deeper into my brain, changing how it communicated, exerting more influence over my senses. We can’t just put that power in Logisen’s hands.”
“But that’s what NASA does. We share data. We share samples. We’ve been doing it for decades. It’s no big deal, Z.”
“This time it is, Pat. Logisen’s ‘Marked Division’ is not business as usual.” She stood and shot him a look. “I need you to think bigger than NASA.”
...
The next day, Z was 1,700 miles away, getting out of an autonomous at the entrance to World Media headquarters when Patrick called. Z ignored him. Enough of NASA, she thought. NASA kept reverting to the standard playbook, treating everything but the Martian like typical inorganic samples. They were making the same mistake she had: thinking the headpieces were just jewelry when, in reality, they were powerful technology. Z thought about that for a second and chuckled at the irony.
Z had dressed smartly—professional, but fashionable. She was going to meet with Triche and she wanted to have the look of a media personality, not a space nerd. She was scanned for her biometrics and sent up to Triche’s office. When the elevator door slid open, Z stepped through it without paying attention, almost walking into Triche’s assistant. For a moment, Z peered at the mirrored, oval, eyeless face.
“Ms Nasri. You are expected,” it said and turned to lead the way across the expanse to Triche’s desk. Z observed it as she followed. The robot had the most refined motor skills she had ever seen. Its walk was not simply smooth, it was a graceful interplay of movements choreographed from the point of its high heels to the top of its polished head. It made Z believe it had a skeleton and musculature that she knew wasn’t there. There was a reason so few could afford this type of robot.
When they reached Triche’s desk, the assistant turned to face Z and gestured delicately with its hand for her to sit. Triche looked up from her work. “Elizabeth. Good to see you. I’m looking forward to our planning session.”
“I am, too.”
“You are. That’s good,” Triche replied, softly. “Now tell me what is on your wish list for this show.” Then she listened patiently while Z described how she wanted to highlight specific artifacts—some real, others from the hundreds of scanned and printed replicas—to tell stories about the Martian civilization that could be brought to life using computer modeling of the city and renderings of the spirits as Z saw them through the headpieces.
“We could recreate the daily life of the city.”
Triche gently shook her head. “People are only interested in daily life when it’s used for comedy.” Then she sat back and, over a long moment, assessed the young woman seated across from her. “I think you are missing the point, Elizabeth. You are trying to package your discoveries so they make sense. People get bored by daily life. They don’t want things to make sense; they want mystery and suspense even in a documentary. The best thing you ever did for the City of Spirits was turn your beautiful cheek to the camera and shed a tear.”
A long pause followed while Triche studied her media asset. Finally, she spoke. “So, what else happened to Elizabeth on Mars?”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
Elizabeth took a deep breath. It was like the headache of that day in the control center had never gone away, only been buried. Now, Triche was giving her permission to unburden herself of the story no one on the crew could appreciate. “I saw ancient Earth from orbit as one of their ships entered the atmosphere. I witnessed what I think was the purposeful destruction of that ship. I watched a congress of some kind meeting about bacteria that was contaminating their food supply.” Z stopped and took a breath, considering whether she should go the next step in her account. “I felt their fear. The headpiece conveyed their emotions to me.” Z felt a release happen in her chest, looked down at the desktop, and fought back tears.
Triche smiled with satisfaction. “I think we may have an episode, there.”
After a moment, Elizabeth continued, describing the failed trial of the headpieces on Dunlap and Colin, her rising anxiety knowing that she had limited time to explore before their return, the futile attempt she made to understand the controls and readouts no one but she could see, and the reappearance of the Elder, pointing her to new discoveries. Then she described the cascading experiences leading her through the death of the City.
“I think we have the season. I think we should tell that story in four episodes, culminating with your emotions watching the demise of the Martians. Then, in the final two episodes, we put you face-to-face with two descendants of the Martian colonists.”
“Who are you considering?”
“Two individuals who paid a lot of money for the privilege.”
“So, we’re descending to Earth, now.”
“I think it’s time. The most important discovery in history deserves to generate the most revenue in history. By the end of this coming season we’ll have exhausted all the interesting stories about the Martian city, so I want to focus on what’s happening here on Earth. We’ll wrap-up Path of Discovery and launch a new show and make it about those who voyaged to Earth.”
Z wasn’t surprised by the idea of pausing Path after the second season; she was surprised that Triche had assumed she’d be available. Z was still hoping to get the call to be on the mission launching next year. “Who would I profile?”
One is Senator Crowley; and the other is a new industrialist, Julius Ross. I’m sure you know them; they’re both involved with NASA.”
“I’ve met both of them. They’re playing to power brokers. Crowley at least wears a red pin, meaning he’s been tested. I haven’t seen that on Ross. Do you have a guarantee that he’s Marked? A fraud could sink the show even before it gets going.”
“Finding a fraud would make the series even better. We could give it a detective spin. Elizabeth Nasri, truth-seeker. Exposing imposters among the Marked. We’ll schedule that for next season. Julius Ross provided us with a record of his genotype.”
...
The autonomous was waiting when Z exited. It was a lounge car, a small room on wheels with plush seats that faced toward a central table. Z got in, sat down, and the autonomous silently followed its prescribed, optimized route to the airport. Z placed her tablet on the table. The show producer had already sent her a rough treatment for the season. Z was a little intimidated by what she read; the new season seemed to be less about the Martians and more about her personal journey. Part of the story would come from her narration, but large sections would require her to act out an immersive retelling of her explorations, revealing her emotions and inner thoughts as she watched Martian history unfold. At the end of the season, she would follow the Martian migration to Earth and that is when she would profile prominent Marked personalities.
Although she had no idea how she would learn to act, she presumed that World Media would make that happen, just as it had turned her into a fashion fireworks display at the Conference. If she didn’t make the next mission, this series could become a tidy little business, Z thought. There were worse people to have advising her than Triche.
Z began to add notes to each show, recalling the sequence of her discoveries, descriptions of her experience, and her feelings as she pieced together the history lesson the Elder had laid out for her. She stopped her note-writing and looked up; the roads were not the same ones the car had taken on the way in from the airport. That, in and of itself, was not unusual; autons often rerouted to make faster progress. She thought about the progression of her discoveries, beginning the moment she found the headpieces—how the Elder reappeared always at the moment she had reached an impasse and directed her to a new chapter, a broader picture of the civilization. It was a history lesson. If this, indeed, was a programmed history lesson being given to her by the Elder, then that could also tip the scales for her to join the next mission. She looked up from her daydream about forcing NASA’s hand and noticed the autonomous had turned down a street leading to a row of warehouses.
“Stop. Stop right now,” she ordered. The car continued down the empty street. Z looked around the interior for any type of emergency lever. She had never thought it necessary to look, before. “Stop. The. Car,” she repeated. It continued toward an intersection. “That’s it. I’m breaking a window,” she yelled in case that was some magic phrase that would make the AI stop the car. When the car continued, Z laid back on the table and kicked at a side window.
“I picked today to wear a dress and high heels,” she bemoaned out loud. The shoes weren’t working, even though the heel should have concentrated the force of the kick. She hiked her dress up her legs, took off her shoes, took a deep breath and slammed her bare feet into the window. It shattered into beads. Then the door swung open and she slid out onto the sidewalk in a rumpled pile. The car had stopped.
“A fine mess,” she grumbled as she quickly stood, grabbed her purse from the car, and scanned the street for an attack. Inside her purse, she carried an immobilizer—all celebrities had them—but Z had also been strength training and was prepared to get physical if she needed to. She looked up and down the empty street, bordered on both sides by five storeys of windowless concrete buildings. Which way to go? she wondered. Without much time to think, Z chose to go back in the direction the car had come. Far above her, a voice yelled in an unintelligible tongue, followed by a group laughing. The laughs echoed off the warehouse walls.
“Watched. Yep, that’s what I’m beginning to feel,” she said to herself. She decided to walk down the middle of the street, feigning calm and determination. At least the center of the street would give her some time to react to an attacker, a rapist. No, this wasn’t a rapist; this was a takedown. She trotted around the corner where she saw a lone man standing in the middle of the block, leaning against the front of a building, watching her.
Z didn’t plan to stop. At least she’d make him come after her, she decided.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said with a soft Irish accent.
“Famous last words,” Z replied. But she stopped. “What do you want?”
“It’s difficult to get a private word with you, so we had to go to extremes.”
“Like kidnapping. You think I won’t be missed… very soon?”
He laughed-off the threat, shaking his head. “Can you hear me well?” he asked calmly.
“I can hear you fine. I can see you fine.” Z looked quickly behind her. “And I can see anyone you send my way.”
The man smiled. “Good. You just stay there, then. I’ll stay here. I’m going to tell you something you ought to know.”
“Okay. Tell me.” Z stayed taught, ready to bolt.
“I used to be an intelligence analyst. Communications. I was part of a group analyzing headaches in our embassies. Some technology was giving people headaches and the headaches were making people see things. Does that scenario ring a bell for you?” The man paused, looked down at his shoes, and waited.
“But the headpieces don’t change behavior,” Z responded.
He looked up, his pale eyes shooting across space at her. “You think. They tap directly into the brain. Did you ever watch yourself in the first video? We got very interested the second we watched your eyeballs roll back in your head.”
“That was never released to the public.”
“That’s right. But we studied it. You describe the headpieces as playing a recording of the people who lived in the City. Did it ever occur to you that you were seeing what it wanted you to see?”
“Are you saying the recording is a lie?”
“No. I think it’s a true story. I’m just saying that a brain connection like that could be used to send a recording… or something else.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall. “That’s what our report said. That got some attention.”
“I’m confused. So now this secret intelligence group in what, the CIA, the NSA, wants to talk to me. Why do you have to kidnap me? Why not just send an inter-agency request?”
“I’m not here on their behalf. Once our report got out, new analysts came into the group—experts we were told.”
Z leveled a stare at the man. “Marked.”
“Finally, I was let go.” He ran his fingers through his straight, silver hair and shook his head. “Politics, I was told.”
“So, bad guys want to rewire people’s heads.”
“Changing the hearts and minds of free-thinking people takes a lot of work. It would be easier to just plug in and shift the data around however they want it. The headpieces target the behavior directly to the person. It’s just a better tool.”
“But the stones only work on people with the Martian variant, and we aren’t even sure of that.”
“True, it would be better if they could control everyone, but there’s no downside to creating and influencing an elite class. People who buy into the whole Marked mythology already believe they are above the norm. Soon, they’ll believe they have the right to push others around.” He took a long pause to size her up. “How about you, Commander? Do you think you’re above the norm?”
“What do you expect from me?”
“We want your help.”
“Who’s we?”
“Earthers.”
“They’re like a gang, aren’t they? Why would they have an intelligence person?”
“That’s only the fringe,” he said with derision in his voice. “Serious business needs people with serious skills. A lot of us have been pushed out of working for the government. Let’s just say we’re available and motivated.”
A cold breeze blew down the canyon. Z remembered where she was and looked over her shoulder to be sure no one was creeping around behind her. “Like I said, if they’re in the government why don’t they just fill-out a request?”
“Can I come a little closer? I don’t want to shout.”
Z nodded, but put her hand near her immobilizer. “Not too close.”
He walked slowly over to Z and stopped at a sword’s length from her. “While you were up in space, a lot of people in important places were replaced by red pins. The pins have already made their request for you. They know the pieces are going back to Mars on the next mission, and for whatever reason, they can’t wait another four years to get their hands on them.”
“Logisen.”
“It’s bigger than them, but they’re the linchpin. I heard they talked to you about getting them a headpiece. And if they think the headpiece is so important, we’re going to need a peek at one, ourselves.”
“And if I’m not motivated to help you? You know that I’m Marked.”
“You say these Martians were kind, cooperative people. But that’s not what’s happening here on Earth. We don’t know how far this red pin movement is going to go, but my guess is that it’s going to get very unkind soon. We’re counting on you to stand up for your Martians, not the Marked people.”
He took out a pen and a small card and scribbled on it. “Someday, we will ask you for a favor. The contact will use this phrase.” He handed her the card, which read We named it Indiana. Then he signaled over his shoulder and a driver pulled a turn of the century car around the corner. “Can I offer you a ride to the airport? A VIP like you can still beat the crowds to your flight.”
“You don’t think Logisen knows the autonomous brought me here?”
He smiled. “We set-up something we call The Gyre; no data gets in or out, it just circles around. They think the car delivered you to the airport, right on time. For the last fifty minutes, you have officially been a ghost, Commander.”