Celeste maneuvered around the center island of her kitchen with the precision of an ice skater circling a bouquet tossed onto the ice by an admirer. The sweep of the arm, the extension of the hand to move a plate, place a glass, or fill a bento box; each cross-over or turn from the island to the sink to the refrigerator executed with the muscle memory that comes from knowing that this is exactly how she wanted to perform in every aspect of her life.
Bento box for Nichole. Lunch money for Charlie. The images on the screen caught her eye but she decided to ignore them.
Charlie sat at the black marble counter scooping food into his mouth and looking up at the monitor above the refrigerator. “Mom. You have to stop and watch this. They're down in the cave.”
“Okay. Just for a moment. You can't be late for school.” Celeste looked up to see the drone camera sweeping along the walls of the terminal.
Patrick, acting as narrator, explained, “Commander Nasri is navigating along a wall, here, looking for tunnel entrances we've seen on the city plan.” The drone passed a series of rooms carved into the wall.
A reporter butted-in. “Wait. What's that? What are we passing-by?”
Celeste echoed the question. The video froze.
“The drone's flying past rooms, offices, we think some of these are waiting rooms possibly. We didn't have time during this exploration so we didn't stop for a close look. That will come next.”
The video restarted. Celeste watched as the drone found the twin tunnels and entered.
Patrick turned up the crew recording. “At this point, let's listen in.”
Colin’s report came over the speaker. “Battery at 45%. You have about 5 minutes, Commander.”
Celeste turned back to wipe the counter. “Finish up, Charlie.”
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“Mom, they've found a room. They're going in. Come on. Watch!”
Sweeping the dish cloth across one last dribble of water on the counter top, Celeste turned toward the monitor for just a second, wanting to usher Charlie out of his seat and toward the waiting autonomous. Then she saw the chandeliers. A room from an ancient court was being revealed on the screen.
Then came Z’s exclamation. “This is remarkable. Who could've expected this?”
...
Morning had broken across the Western United States, where people were in mid-rush to start their lives. For some, the press conference with its video had abruptly halted their morning routine. Kids were late for school, employees were late for work, and everyone tried to begin the day while bearing an overwhelming feeling of unreality.
In New York, the markets took a mid-morning jump when the video was released, then settled back into an ordinary day of trading. By noon, stock analysts were placing bets whether live Martians would be found or not.
In London, where the afternoon was nearing its end, offices shut early and emptied workers into the streets, bars, and restaurants. People, a drink in one hand and a tablet in the other, re-watched the video and argued with each other over what had been revealed and what was yet to be. Some saw good in the civilization that had built the underground city, others saw risk and danger. Some proclaimed that the Martians were long dead, others warned that the astronauts would soon stumble upon an army. As long as there was food and drink on the table, there was room for debate.
In Shinjuku, the late night bars, clubs, and izakaya went silent as drunken salarymen watched ubiquitous screens where NHK’s lead science reporter pondered how safe Earth was, now that we had revealed ourselves to our neighbors in space.
World Media had been betting on this moment to arrive, from the second the first subterranean scans had gone public. They had searched their databases for Mars in literature and popular culture—fantasies about Martian civilizations, the geology of Mars, the history of Mars exploration, the plan to colonize—and were ready with their AI to scramble any number of images, videos, factoids, and quotes into an unending stream of what-if scenarios. They had assembled an A-list, B-list, and C-list of experts and prognosticators to provide running commentary. And they had prepped their render farm to enhance every second of video that NASA released, looking for clues that would prompt new what-ifs.
Triche was determined to stay ahead of the mob of amateurs who immediately began amplifying the story—and their own screen value—with unhinged commentary and fakes showing strange shapes lurking in shadows as the drone floated through the city. “Make them quote us,” she said as her direction to the production staff. World Media would own the expert commentary, even if that commentary was no more grounded in fact than that of the riff-raff.