Z looked lazily around her dark mod. Light glowed from her tablet. A line of light showed at the bottom of the door. She caught a reflection in her mirror. She lay in bed for a moment, reminding herself what steps came next. Get up.
She put her knees together and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Light on. Feet on floor. Bathroom. No. Remove Trophene patch, then bathroom.
She zipped open the top of her bodysuit and gently turned the titanium and plastic bubble that was sucking onto her skin. The Trophene patch latched itself onto her like a parasite and pierced her skin with tiny needles to transmit the solution. There was a slight prick, then she pulled it away. A red, thimble-sized chafe remained on her skin between her collarbone and shoulder. Completely programmable, the bionic chip fed a prescribed dose of the Trophene genetic cocktail to induce the shifting. Now that she’d removed the patch, the needles had retracted and it would be unable to work again. The chafe would disappear within hours; her skin would be back to normal before her brain was.
A half-hour later, after a towel-down and shampoo, Z was on her way to the common room. She was not a big coffee drinker, but it helped her shake off the Trophene. Ellis was quietly having breakfast while he read the news.
“Ellis. How are things?”
Ellis looked up from the table screen. “The new president is off to a shaky start. The stock market is up. The Cardinals are in first place.”
“The ship.”
“A-OK. Everything's functioning smoothly.”
“MCC?”
“About three days ago, they uploaded an update to system software. They were worried about another hack. They saw fluctuations in lab sensors.”
“I thought you said everything was A-OK.”
“It is, now. The upgrade took care of whatever they were worried about.
“What did they see that worried them? Did something upload into the ship’s systems?” Z asked, trying to jumpstart her fuzzy brain into command mode.
Ellis scrolled through some notes from MCC. “Not uploaded to the ship; downloaded from the ship.”
“And everything is okay since the upgrade.”
“Yeah, all good. By the way, Patrick sent up something that will interest you. You should read it. It's from the Times about your popularity in Syria. They call you Queen Zenobia.”
“Okay. No pressure there. Does it say who she is?”
“I didn’t read that far.”
“I'll take a look. Is Colin up?”
“Yeah. He's setting-up a test. Nori and Dunlap are getting their checklist done before they shift tomorrow.”
“Okay. I'll check-in with them.” Z grabbed some breakfast and sat down with her tablet to catch-up on news from Mission Control. The post-shifting porridge felt like mana filling and sating her empty body. She opened the briefing that awaited her each time she came out of a shift. There was a paragraph, with links, about the events of the last month: one of her favorite actors had died in a space plane crash; the old Kennedy Space Center was partially submerged by a hurricane; the average lifespan of the wealthiest Americans was now 110, while a middle class American’s lifespan had not improved since 2008 and people were starting to ask why; the global economy continued to flutter like a ragged flag—still waving, but tearing apart; the president, who had been elected after their liftoff, appeared to be on his way to being the fourth one-term president in a row. Like the others, his government was having trouble building an economy on top of an endless procession of floods, storms, heat waves, and fires that were forcing flight from coastlines and creating near-derelict cities. His main critic was from one of the states hardest hit by the crisis—and one most to blame for creating it. Senator Crowley of Texas had a folksy manner that belied his intense ambition. A climate reactionary, he advocated for redesigning and rebuilding the nation’s infrastructure to harden it against extreme climate events. As a policy platform, it had immense appeal for a citizenry fatigued by the ongoing barrage of catastrophes; it also had the full financial support of technology, utility, and construction interests.
Z shook her head, then called out, “Ellis, I just read the briefing. Is there any way we can turn back?”
...
The delivery woman approached the door, envelope in hand. She knew by now what she was carrying. Deliveries of the square envelope with the embossed brush stroke were making up more and more of her daily schedule. It was an anachronism to send a paper letter but the formality made it doubly special. Some people were even framing the letters they received. As the delivery woman climbed the front steps, Celeste opened the front door, took the envelope and signed for it. Back inside, Celeste stood in the entry hall for a moment, looking down at the envelope in her hands. This was one of the litmus tests of life that define destiny. Celeste thought back on her college admission email, her Bar examination score, her pregnancy test results; open this envelope and her life would be redefined.
If she didn't carry the marker it would be a terrible disappointment. She had kept the test secret from her friends, even from Jim—he couldn't be trusted not to blab about it to his buddies. She couldn't handle her personal life and her reputation being exposed before she had time to polish it. If she didn't carry the marker then she would have to discretely lose interest in everything Martian. No more Red Planet. No more off-world fashion. She would brush it off as yesterday's trend. If she didn't carry the marker and some of her friends did, then she could be at a disadvantage. They would have a Thing that she didn't, couldn't, obtain. That was the hardest thought to accept. Obtaining things was easy for Celeste—she was always wealthy enough and smart enough and pretty enough to obtain whatever she felt was appropriate for her.
But if she did carry the marker, it would confirm what she had always felt: that she was placed in a special position with special abilities. It would be another certification of her God-given leadership abilities.
She carried the envelope to the island in the kitchen, opened the drawer and extracted a razor sharp Japanese sushi knife with a blade so thin and an edge so finely honed that it could slice tuna thin enough to read through. She laid the envelope on the counter and inserted the knife into the unglued area of the flap. Slowly sliding the blade back and forth being careful to angle the edge through the molecules of glue between the sheets of paper, she cleanly separated the flap from the body of the envelope and lifted it. Celeste closed her eyes, took a breath and then removed the letter, being careful not to misshapen, wrinkle or stain the paper with her fingertips. She unfolded it part-way, just enough to read without weakening the fold.
Ms Celeste Woodley, your blood test reveals that you...
Celeste took another breath.
...possess the marker for Martian heritage in your DNA. You and other Marked individuals are now registered in our exclusive database and will receive special notifications in advance of the general public as our research reveals new information about the Martian genetic code.
She sighed. Of course. Why had she ever doubted the outcome?
She delicately re-folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope. The drawer at the far corner of the kitchen held the glue stick that she slid around the perimeter of the flap before gently pressing the envelope shut. Then she picked up her tablet and called-up the educator she had met.
He picked up immediately, “Hello?”
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
“Hello. This is Celeste Woodley. We met at the first day of the New Mars Conference.”
“Yes. I remember. Did you get what you wanted out of it?”
“I did. It was eye-opening. I spent some time with the Chief Information Officer for the Mars Habitat mission. I hope to be talking with him soon. I'm calling to ask how your theory of Martian genetic memory played out at the conference.”
“It received quite a bit of interest. I have presentations to several Universities, to educational organizations, and to curriculum developers. The reaction was all very positive. And with a convenient test available now, I'm sure I’ll be getting a lot of interest in alternatives to traditional schools.”
“That's exactly why I'm calling. Here's the situation: my children’s private high school has been dropping in academic ranking and I lead a group of parents who are interested in improving that ranking. We'd be willing to fund a study. Would you be interested?”
...
It took a few days to get on everyone’s schedule, but soon enough Celeste's group of friends were sitting around a table on a serene, tree-covered patio at a chic local café.
Ashleigh Bouchet, looked around excitedly as she minced across the patio to the table, where she bubbled to Celeste, “Oh, this is wonderful. Is this about something special? I've tried to get into this restaurant for months.”
Celeste stood and gave Ashleigh a quick hug, “I had no problem. But now that you ask, yes, this is a special moment.” She pulled an envelope from her purse and everyone immediately recognized what the luncheon was about. “Well, everyone. This little envelope...”
A woman at the table blurted out, “You got tested!”
Celeste waved-away the comment and continued, “Like I was about to say, inside this envelope are the results of my Telmara test. Am I part Martian? Only the contents of this envelope will tell.”
The same woman blurted again, “And the winner for best actress is...”
Celeste casually, even cavalierly, tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter. The waiter, noticing the envelope and the commotion, sidled over to watch the results.
“Drum roll, please,” said Celeste with a flick of her finger as her friends laughed. Not everyone, of course, believed she would expose herself to the possibility of a slight; they were all jockeying for attention as part of the Martian variant crowd.
Celeste began in a serious tone of voice, “’Ms Celeste Woodley, your blood test reveals that you possess the marker for the Martian variant in your DNA!’” She burst into a scream as if she had won the lottery. The women at the table all cheered and applauded.
Celeste turned to the waiter. “Champagne, please! And not the ordinary stuff. Get me the kind that Martians drink!” Then, as she placed her napkin neatly over her lap, she whispered as if in confidence with the half-dozen at the table, “I'm getting my whole family tested, just to confirm. It makes sense—since I'm Marked, the kids will be too.”
Ashleigh leaned in. “What if Jim isn't?”
Another replied, “Then the answer's easy: you'll just have to find some hunky Marked guy. Maybe Armon is available.” They all laughed.
Carmen lifted her brows. “I bought my kit. I haven't done the test yet. The pin prick scares me.”
“Come on,” Martha answered. “That's not the attitude to have. Be strong.”
Ashleigh shrugged her shoulders. “I'm not sure I want to know.”
The waiter brought the champagne, poured glasses and they all toasted to the new Queen of Mars. Celeste was very happy being the center of attention. “Well, you'll all want to get your children tested. Let me tell you about recommendations we're going to make to the school directors. That consultant I brought in? His idea is to create a complete school curriculum based on, guess what?”
“Drum roll again, please,” someone mumbled.
“On having ancestors from Mars!”
Carmen didn’t understand where this idea was going. “For all the kids?”
“No!” said Celeste. “It wouldn't make any sense. His approach unlocks all kinds of talents in children just by acknowledging their real history: that they came from an advanced civilization. He says we'll awaken dormant cultural memories.”
“Woah. That's crazy!” said Carmen. “Do you mean he wants to separate kids with the marker?”
“That's exactly what it means. We did that when I was in high school—we had advanced placement for the smarter kids. This is the same thing; it's an advanced placement. And by focusing on this group that already has promise—well, some of them will need to work on it—he can raise the average test scores for the school. Higher test scores. Improved ranking. Better colleges for everyone.”
Ashleigh wrinkled her brow. “So are they going to do this at your house? I'm sure not. Where are you going to do this?”
“The school built that new building for the athletes. It has labs, classrooms, an auditorium. Jim says that if they can fast track the permits—and he thinks they can—he will donate the construction costs for a new, better building for the sports teams and we can take over the existing building next semester.”
Debra looked at Celeste with an expression of incredulity. “That's millions of millions. Are you crazy?”
“It's seed money. Jim starts it, then we hit up every rich parent with an athlete going to the school—that means you, and you,” she said, pointing to friends who were flattered to be singled out as a person of wealth. “The school will have a higher ranking, so better athletes will want to come to the school.”
“When does this go to the directors?”
“Soon. This is a small project for Jim. I'm sure he has it figured out.”
Celeste smiled as she looked out on her gathering of friends, lunching under the trees, with vases of flowers in dappled sunlight. Jim has this figured out, she told herself; I have this figured out. Lifting up my community, that’s what I’m doing. Then she looked beyond her friends to the garden-like setting of the restaurant, where other community leaders lunched. She felt triumphant on a beautiful, sunny day. They all ate a leisurely lunch with two more bottles of champagne and then parted with hugs. In the parking lot, Ashleigh asked Celeste if she could stay a moment to talk.
“Sure, dear. What’s up?”
“I didn't want to say anything at lunch. You got your test back and we were all happy. I know you're glad to hear it, you're so excited about the Mars thing.”
Celeste smiled, but was curious why Ashleigh was acting shy. In fact, she'd been acting oddly all afternoon. Celeste raised her eyebrows and leaned toward her as if to make a secret easier to tell.
Ashleigh leaned in, too. “I got my test, too. And I don't have the marker.”
“Oh, I'm sorry, Ash.”
“I just thought it would be fun if we all turned out to be Marked. It would make our little group extra special.”
Celeste put her hand on Ashleigh’s arm. “But we are special. And don't worry about a thing. It doesn't make any difference if we’re all Marked or not.”
“So I'm still part of the Red Planet parties?”
“Of course you are! You're going to be there next week, aren't you?”
Ashleigh smiled, “Yes. I wouldn’t miss it.”
Celeste turned, waved and walked toward her auton. “You're on chips and dip. See you then.”
Ashleigh was still smiling as she watched Celeste speed away.
...
Once it had sensed the vibration from the rockets firing, it had stretched its sensors throughout the City.
They were gone.
It thought for a nanosecond and then began recalling every moment every member of the crew had spent in the City and in their surface habitat. In the tunnels and buildings of the City, a ghosted avatar of Z once again explored the control center; avatars of Dunlap and Colin and Noriko once again made final plans for sealing off the tunnel; and downslope, Ellis’ avatar once again piloted a machine exploring the lava tubes. It correlated actions and objects with the sounds that were commonly spoken in association with them, and in a little time it could decipher their spoken language and match it with written language. It recalled Z’s thoughts and correlated everyone’s metabolic activity with their speaking so it could understand the emotions attached to each word. Within a few sols, it amassed a detailed recreation of their entire experience on Mars and, by analyzing the experience, understood that the crew had been making preparations for a colonization mission to follow and that Z hoped to return, but was not certain of it.
It recalled her anguish at finding the Elder’s body, her disappointment at not having found a living civilization, her desire to learn about and understand her ancestors. Close to her feelings about the City were similar ones about an ancient city on the Blue Planet—Palmyra. A place destroyed. “Leader. Empath. Explorer. One of Us. The one who would return, as promised by those who left so long ago,” it concluded.
It weighed the possible options. The others were preparing to construct living spaces inside the City. Would people come and repeat what they had done to this other city on the Blue Planet? Z would not let them. Of that, it was certain. So it decided that the path forward required Z to return, and for the City to be ready when she did.