Zeyk gazed out at the rough and unimaginably cold Martian landscape. He felt at peace looking out at the unforgiving landscape that happenstance and human meddling had managed to create. He could almost see the multi-story bucket-wheel excavators, mining for precious materials to kickstart a breathable atmosphere on Mars. His seat from inside the high-speed rail added a surreal edge to it all: Living machines consuming a planet, excreting their waste into the Verse.

The haze that surrounded the excavators was a mixture of carbon dioxide and Martian regolith. The pollution from the mining operations gave the appearance of oily paint smudged over a dirty canvas. If this had taken place on Earth, there might have been considerable fines paid on behalf of the company involved. However, this was Mars. Pollution was a necessary evil, a welcomed and crazed animal, when it came to the terraforming projects that consumed much of the planet's GDP. Entire generations had worked on building a habitable Mars, and many went into the recyclers, knowing their work hadn't been completed, but, instead, been passed on to their children, grandchildren, and fellow Martians. It gave the population an unhealthy sense of obligation to their homeworld, something few humans on Earth could understand. Air wasn't cheap. Neither was water. The infrastructure that kept Martians alive wasn't grown in labs like the one Zeyk worked in.

No, he'd, like other Martians, been given an impossible task, inherited by his family before him and those before them. Zeyk still felt those all-too-real pains one experienced when looking on, in awe, at an artist's or computer's representation of what Mars, a green Mars, might look like, one day in the future. He knew that if these fantasies were to become reality, he, and others like him, would need to consider turning the tables on the existing system that favored foreign money and broken Martian households. The IMDC would need to go, and so would MAP-1. What he didn't know was how he'd achieve such a feat.

The illegal political organization he'd just helped form wasn't looking to be the next big step in the Martian indigenous landscape. Instead, the organized, what they'd all decided to call Concerned Citizenry, was shaping up to be a rather small club, with few members and few prospects. It wasn't the revolution he'd expected to join. The idealist in Zeyk knew revolutions required work. The pessimist, the Martian pessimist from Hotel California, believed it wasn't worth his time. He could do other things, truly drastic actions, in order to foment revolution on his homeworld.

The optimist was winning, though.

Zeyk had been elected head of Concerned Citizenry, given charge of a revolutionary platform, a truly Martian indigenous political platform, and he was scared of what it might mean for his somewhat comfortable existence in Hotel California.

Although he didn't live a life of luxury and travel to and from the surface to the Martian moons or the habitats on the glittering edge of the Palatialband, something called the Lesser Sutra, he was comfortable. He didn't worry about bills–much. He didn't worry about the finer things in life, like one's oxygen and water credits or bandwidth usage. That might change, and he felt unsure of what that would mean for him and those he associated with in Hotel California.

Zeyk made mental notes, remembering that he'd need to be careful going forward. He knew Guy would have to take a permanent vacation, or Zeyk would need to visit those hackers who were less scrupulous and willing to falsify time stamps, change the public record, and even reprogram the baseline code for Guy, Zeyk's familiar, so that it wouldn't be compelled to tell the truth to those authorities who might arrest Zeyk and detain Guy.

Zeyk was lost in thought when an elderly gentleman sat next to him. The stranger tapped his gold wedding band on the plastic armrest next to him. He hummed something in Mandarin and looked over at Zeyk, who was staring out into the expanse of Martian landscape.

“I hear you've been given a great honor here on Mars,” the old man said, almost as if he were talking to himself. “Zeyk Duval, right?”

At first, Zeyk ignored the man. Then he heard his name being spoken. He turned to the stranger and said, “How do you know my name, friend?”

“Do you call everyone friend?” the old man asked.

Zeyk gave the old man a once-over. He decided that man was some kind of Earth, a bureaucrat, too. He had the air of someone who worked in government. Zeyk couldn't decide what kind of bureaucrat the old man was, nor did he really care.

“You're not from here, are you?” Zeyk asked, shifting in his seat.

The old man shook his head, but he kept humming something in Mandarin.

“You're also a synth,” Zeyk said, noticing the artificial skin implants. His company helped manufacture the chemicals from plants grown throughout the system, and, particularly, on Mars, in Hotel California.

“Correct,” the old man said, still humming between words.

“What do you want?” Zeyk asked.

“Nothing,” the old man said, looking over at Zeyk. “We have mutual interests here on Mars. I just wanted to let you know that some things have been taken care of, Mr. Duval. You will find more information in your apartment once you arrive in Hotel California.”

“What if I don't want any help?” Zeyk asked.

“Every revolution requires some outside interference, at some point,” the old man said. “The United States, France, Russia, China, Cuba–you name it, they probably started with the seeds of foreign plants.”

“What do I call you, friend?” Zeyk asked.

The old man hummed some, look around the empty cabin, and then said, “Mr. Liu Jianguo.”

“Nice to meet you, I guess,” Zeyk said.

“Pleasure's mine, Zeyk,” the old man said, pushing himself up from his seat. “We will see more of each other soon enough. Make sure you get some rest. Revolutionaries always need to start off on the right foot. Sleep and meditation will help you move forward.”

“Sounds stupid,” Zeyk blurted out loud.

“Counterintuitive might be a better word,” Mr. Liu Jianguo said. “Goodbye, Mr. Duval.”

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