The video of the first descent gave a representation of the Martians that was pleasing to look upon. Though they were unlike any civilization of Earth, still peoples around the world each found a reflection of themselves among those in the mural. That not only assuaged fear of a monster alien race, it induced an easy acceptance of them as our neighbors. Over the course of days, the popular keywords associated with posts about the planet Mars changed from “god of war” to “sister planet.”
There was much to discuss without even addressing the images of the city sent back by the crew. The universal question had been partially answered: we are not alone, yet it appeared that we had been orphaned. The civilization that accomplished such feats of engineering and artistry had apparently disappeared.
...
Triche stood in the dark periphery of the studio, watching the host walk through a three-dimensional rendering of a Martian town square. She was animated and well versed in archaeology. She pointed to a doorway facing the square. “This may have been a store, or it may have been the entrance to the residences above. This is not so different from the type of structures we’ve seen in the town plazas of Europe, in the markets of Morocco. Imagine that it’s the end of a work day, and a Martian shopkeeper sits on his front step, sipping a Martian beer and watching the children playing in the plaza.”
It was a good performance, Triche thought, engaging the audience and bringing them into the spirit of discovery. But it was not enough to hold the viewers’ attention for more than a few shows. People needed drama. People now believed the Martians were a great, lost culture—an Atlantis in space—and they were ravenous for any depiction, however fanciful, that could bring those ancients back to life. She decided to put gears in motion.
...
Patrick hurried down the hall toward his office. A co-worker harangued him as he rushed past, “Hey Pat. How may directions are you being pulled in today?”
The reply was short, but truthful. “Many.”
Patrick entered his office, closed the door behind himself, leaned against it and took a deep breath. He no longer meditated each morning, although he needed to; instead, he awoke with an adrenalin rush and a pit of fear in his stomach. Good things were happening on Mars, but bad things might happen if the Martians decided to make an appearance. Each day his staff was deluged with requests for information and interviews, and recently Patrick had noticed something new: questions why there wasn’t more news coming from Mars Hab 3.
Patrick was used to the steady, methodical progress of Mars Habs 1 and 2. Because they had been studying geology not many experts had peered over their shoulders to be sure no rocks were inadvertently damaged. By contrast, the current expedition was constantly being second-guessed and bogged down by the morass of mounting archaeological significance.
On Earth, two competing factions had grown within the mission team: those who wanted to treat the find like an archaeological dig and those who saw a ready-made base, waiting to house shipload after shipload of colonists. As a result, the Hab 3 crew was being tasked with performing to both standards, and after nearly two weeks since their descent, were still exploring only the cavernous room they had named the Terminal.
Patrick had to find some way to disentangle the mission from the unreasonable expectations that bound it. He grabbed a couple of samples off his desk and set off down the hall to enlist Dan Sharp to intervene. Patrick entered Sharp’s office, holding a bowl etched with symbols, scanned on Mars and transmitted to Earth for replication.
“Have you seen this? Check it out.”
Sharp picked up the bowl and looked closely at it. “That's interesting. Symbols. Is that writing? Is anyone analyzing that?”
“Oh yeah. We have archaeologists and paleographers from a few universities looking at each replicated artifact. They're hungry for anything they can get their hands on.”
“What’s a paleographer?”
“Studies ancient writing processes.” Patrick pulled out a chair and sat facing the Administrator. “I have a decision that needs to be made and I'd like to get your view on how to proceed.”
“Go ahead.”
“The crew is uncovering amazing artifacts each day, universities are ecstatic, but from the public’s perspective this exploration started with fireworks that tantalized everyone, and now it's become like someone reading aloud from a textbook.”
Sharp grinned. “Getting a little slow for you?”
“It's been weeks. On an ordinary mission, I’d go with the flow. But the world is obsessing on this and, frankly, it’s beginning to look like we’re either hiding something or we’re just not doing our job well.”
“I get it. But to be fair, it took the crew some time to establish a new base of operations in the Terminal. They're getting to the work, now.”
“But it's not just that there's been a delay, they are concentrating on individual offices in the Terminal when there's an entire city waiting to be explored. It isn’t entirely their fault; if they break out of the perimeter, the archaeology team rips them apart.”
“Maybe our Commander is trying so hard to follow the archaeologists’ process that she's forgetting there's a public relations side to the story.”
“I think so, and I think that could be problematic. Remember what happened to public interest in the space program when NASA started calling the Space Shuttle a Space Truck?”
The Administrator nodded. “Lost funding.”
“Practicality doesn't sell.”
The Administrator gave it a few seconds thought, then leaned forward. “Give her a day or two, then send her on a public relations mission. Something entertaining for the viewers. I’ll rein in the archaeologists.”
MESSAGE: Patrick Burke to Elizabeth Nasri CC: NASA Information Office
Z, good work on documenting the ruins so far. We have a pressing public relations need, here on Earth, and I want you to take the lead on a new direction. Remember the educational programming I wanted you to do when you return to Earth? Think of it as starting now. The walk-through of the city was a mind-bending experience for most of the world. It created so much interest that people want to go back and revisit the places that enchanted them. They want to get a greater understanding of what they saw. And I want you to be their guide.
Outside of the other work, I want you to use the pocket drone to shoot a weekly segment about part of the city. It doesn't have to be long or detailed. You need to be their host, taking them on a house tour of a very old and famous house.
Looking forward to your ideas.
Pat
MESSAGE: Elizabeth Nasri to Patrick Burke CC: NASA Information Office
Pat,
Got your request. In one way, that's an easy task, but then again, we aren't finding out a lot about these people. How they looked, what they wore, yes, but no cultural history. We can’t even figure out how their machines worked—there are no controls. Anyway, I'll put my head to it and get back to you with an overview of the first show. Thanks.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Z
Z closed her tablet and put on her helmet to walk through the Terminal. In the Terminal, she found busy astronauts wielding scanners and cameras and notebooks. What would she cover? It was pretty clear that Pat wanted something more romanticized than documentary. She could start with the mural, but that would be static. She could demonstrate how the bike lane worked. That would be entertaining.
She certainly couldn't start with the Terminal; one hundred percent of the reporting for the past two weeks had been about that. It would immediately turn people off. But she could go to the next biggest and closest discovery: the Chandelier Room. She sped down to the room’s entrance, stepped through the portico, and stood on the platform overlooking the room. Every time she entered a room in this Martian city, she felt an unshakable expectation that she would find someone there. And now, she surveyed the room trying to imagine what she would shoot and say to make this room come to life for people back on Earth.
She choreographed her movements with the drone. She’d begin with the overview shot of the room, then she'd direct the drone to fly a circle around the closest chandelier and spiral down to her on the ground level. There, she would ask the audience to imagine what such a room might be used for and weave a story of her own. In her narrative, she would muse that since it was the closest to the Terminal it would provide an excellent venue to welcome someone of importance in private. She would note the rows of chairs along the wall as places for select individuals to await the guest's entrance in a procession down the staircases.
As she thought through the description, she walked from one end, down the center of the floor to stand before the three throne-like chairs. Here, the hosts would greet their guest. Z noticed an ornate box on a shelf in the alcove behind the chairs. She could see by the residue on the lid that there had once been a cloth draped over the box.
This would be nice to show, she thought. Let's see if there's anything inside that I can reveal to the audience.
She opened the box. Inside were three of the wire headbands that the Martians wore in the mural, beautiful, delicate, and completely untarnished. This would be the best, she thought, a discovery to share with the whole world. She picked up a headband. Though the silver wire was thin, it kept its shape. To either side were polished discs that looked like veined stone.
Z held out the headpiece in her gloved hands, wondering about the last person who had touched the band. Life on Mars. Now there was life anew. “Too bad I have to wear a helmet,” she said to herself. “It would be a perfect ending to put it on right when I discover it.” She decided to take the headpieces back to the Hab and shoot the closing, there. But first she wanted Patrick to weigh-in on her plan.
She went back to the Terminal and took one of the many pocket drones they’d brought with them. Then she walked to the tunnel entrance where she unpacked it, set it to monitor her mic and put it in personal tracking mode. She spoke instructions to it, describing what she would say and how she wanted the scene to be shot. It was very important for the drone not to follow her, but to let her walk out of frame. Then, facing the camera, with the conveyor behind her, she began.
“Hi everyone. I'm Commander Elizabeth Nasri, Mars Habitat 3.” Then she chuckled a little and her smile broadened. “You can call me Z. All my friends do. I'm going to be your guide to this wonderful world we've discovered. Come along with me and together let's walk The Path of Discovery.” Then she turned from the camera onto the path and, with the assist of the conveyor, walked rapidly away down the tunnel.
MESSAGE: Elizabeth Nasri to Patrick Burke CC: NASA Information Office
Pat,
Let me know what you think of this as an opener and take a look at the outline. Thanks.
Z
Sharp loved the intro and the outline and turned to Patrick, “Shit. Perfect spokesperson for the mission. Run with it.”
Patrick smiled. Z’s comfort in front of the camera wasn’t a surprise to him—or anyone else who read her profile thoroughly. Elizabeth Nasri was one of those people who was always chosen as the spokesperson—by universities, clubs, teams, organizations, her class of astronauts and, most recently, for student outreach videos distributed by Patrick’s office. That is why this PR project they had cooked-up made such sense.
...
Z entered the hab, set the pocket drone on a table, removed her helmet and sat to watch the footage she had just shot in the Chandelier Room. When the video concluded on a close-up of the delicate-looking headband in her gloved hands, she smiled with satisfaction and positioned the pocket drone to shoot a matching angle on her gloveless hands holding the headband in the same way. She directed the drone to begin with her hands and to follow them in close-up as they raised the band to her forehead, then to pull back for her to give her sign-off.
She put the drone in its starting position, held the headband and took a deep breath. “Long ago, the inhabitants of this city wore these ornaments across their foreheads. Sadly, that civilization now appears to be gone. But a new civilization has arrived. Now, I, a new inhabitant of this beautiful city, will do as they once did. Maybe someday you will too.”
With a smile and a sparkle in her eye, Z raised the headband and placed it across her forehead, resting the discs right over her temples as she had seen in the mural. Then her eyes rolled up, her head shook and her arms spasmed. None of it was violent, but it was disturbing to see. She froze, then, after an eternal moment, seemed to return to normal, but with a manic awareness. Her eyes darted around the interior, then she stood-up and grabbed for her helmet but stopped as soon as she touched it.
“The walls have become semi-transparent... And I can see our people outside.” She batted at the walls of the Hab, the drone tracking with her moves. “There’s more. The Terminal is full of people. Aliens. Martians. They're tall, and look like the people in the mural. I think they're in EVA suits because they're carrying helmets and they're getting into vehicles. It's all ghost images. It’s hard to tell where our world begins and their world ends.”
She had placed her hands against the wall, looking straight at it as if looking through a window. “I can't tell if I'm seeing them alive in some other dimension or if I'm seeing a replay of ancient history. They don't appear to notice me or the Hab or any of our stuff. The group—women, men, children—are lining up for the transports. Some are crying. Others are very serious. A few hundred are leaving and others appear to be saying goodbye to them. Those people are dressed differently. I don't know what this means. It's too much. I have to take this off.”
She gently took off the headpiece and set it on the table, closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, then looked at the camera. “I don't know what that was. I'm back and I can see the inside of the Hab. I need to put on my helmet and look outside.” The video shut off.
...
It had watched her reaction. Her actions were not what it had expected—as if she had no idea what the Bridge would do. Odd. Perhaps their knowledge of it was lost over time.
...
On Earth, Patrick and Sharp looked at each other when the signal had stopped. Patrick was glad Z had sent the video only to him. He wanted to be the one who talked the Administrator through what happened. “So, when she went outside, there were no Martians. It was all inside her head, placed there by the piece she put on. I'm glad it didn't kill her.”
“In hindsight, she should have been more careful,” Sharp added. “We'll put a watch on her to be sure she hasn't hemorrhaged or gone crazy from the experience. It's disturbing to watch, so this footage stays classified. But you can edit the rest of the piece and release it. Nasri’s done a good job.”
“What do you want to do about the headpiece?”
“That's a goddamn game changer. She showed three of them in the video. I've told Mission Comm to convey my order to get all three into a secure place and let no one else on the crew touch them until we give permission.”
“I'll use her report up to the point where she reveals the headpiece in the Chandelier Room. I'll freeze there and use her in voiceover saying ‘Long ago, they wore these ornaments... Now a new civilization has arrived…’ That'll be a dramatic ending.”
“No brain melting.”
“No brain melting,” Patrick responded.
...
Celeste sat on an expansive couch in a sunny living room watching the Chandelier Room video on her tablet. The last voiceover concluded and she immediately replayed the video. Time and again, she replayed Z's visioning walk-through and finally paused on the shot that was inserted at the end showing the mural of the Martians.
She fixated on the headband. It was so elegant and perfect—a piece of art they wore every day. What a culture! They were so handsome. The woman and man at the front of the procession stood so tall and straight, like dancers. What was keeping people in America—heck, people on Earth—from becoming like the Martians? She looked around her beautiful, clean, sunny living room.
“Well, I'm on my way. I could get there,” she said to the room, with a smile. Then she tapped on her tablet and after a moment or two, saw the face of her friend Debra.
“Deb. Have you seen the latest video from Mars? It's beautiful. I really mean it. It's like a fairy tale. You know what? It got me thinking, we should start one of those Discovery Clubs that they talk about on the morning show.”
“What do they do in those clubs?”
“It'll be fun. It's an excuse to get together. We can drink Marjitos and have a great old time. Maybe we can exercise together so we can look as good as they do.”
“Can I make Marstinis?”