Zeyk contemplated his new surroundings.
It felt more like Green Thumb’s Ops Center, where they tracked the progress of new plant growths, invasive species, and viruses, among other things. He was afforded some privacy in the back of the large apartment, about midway up from the ground. He missed the parched sky of Mars, and he occasionally still went up to his old level, hoping to get a glimpse of the harsh real estate that was his, and every native Martian’s, birthright.
The others from Concerned Citizenry would be arriving soon. They would have to know that he’d been gifted the apartment, from some anonymous patron. He feared the whole thing would blow up in his face, but his Martian nihilism was getting the better of him now. He figured the end came for everyone eventually.
We all end up in the recycler as worm food, or mushroom fertilizer, eventually, he thought. He laughed at the idea. He’d always imagined being buried on the surface, much like they used to bury bodies on Earth. He liked the idea of being useful to future and still living Martians. However, a part of him, the more selfish part of him, felt an undying desire to be buried beneath the parched sky of Mars. He wanted to look up at his birthright when he finally kicked the bucket. He wanted to be able to call the sky his own, as he couldn’t call much his.
Sure, he owned things. He has his work. He had his credentials from various institutions of learning. He’d even managed to earn a Ph.D., something of a rarity for many living on Mars. Everyone pursued the technical schooling required to keep the terraforming going, or to keep the current systems that allowed a few hundred million people to survive on Mars. However, he couldn’t call much his. Not really. His work was bought and sold between Green Thumb and various organizations on Mars. His greatest works were highly sought after, yes, but no one knew who had designed them, who had nourished them from idea all the implementation. His education felt more and more meaningless, because his heart wasn’t in it anymore. He’d studied the intricacies of biology, exploring the cell, DNA, RNA, and other idiosyncrasies of organic life. These all seemed to be dwarfed, as of late, by his interest in something profoundly human: purpose.
Purpose was a tricky thing.
It was dangerous, too.
The IMDC, with their international monies, pushed terraforming as the central purpose of Martian society. Some took up this purpose much like a new believer might come to take up God’s message to preach to the masses. Others saw it as something they were duty-bound to carry on their shoulders. Still, others, didn’t much care for what they’d been given by an organization that saw them as merely numbers on an infinite-expanding spreadsheet. People like Zeyk saw the IMDC’s grand mission, its central purpose of making Mars habitable, as a dream not worth pursuing, at least not yet. What about all of the other problems? What about inequalities and injustices still perpetrated by a small few? How could they build a better tomorrow on a foundation that was already crumbling under the weight of those sitting atop it?
Zeyk was distracted from his own thoughts as his colleagues began making their way from the secure entrance to what he had named the “Ops Center” of the apartment. The Ops Center itself was filled with computer terminals, virtual sandboxes, bookshelves, and plenty of seating. The other three members of Concerned Citizenry looked around the room, at each other, and then to Zeyk.
“Nice digs,” Olivia Abel said, making herself comfortable on a long and narrow couch. She was wearing what many might call working Martian chic: Heavy overalls, heavy work boots, and a baseball cap.
“Yeah, didn’t realize you Green Thumb folks were paid this well,” Andre Smith said with a chuckle. He, too, made himself comfortable, taking a seat in a large recliner. He wore something more reminiscent of what he uni professors wore when Zeyk was in school. Andre wore a suit with a spider silk tie, and he also wore an expensive pair of loafers.
“I see our mutual friend has visited you, Zeyk,” James Rodriguez commented, looking over the apartment with a careful eye. James was, technically speaking, Concerned Citizenry’s security officer. Zeyk figured he’d been contacted by the mysterious man as well. That only made sense.
“Anything to worry about?” Zeyk asked James.
“Always something to worry about,” James offered. “I’ve begun scans of the room and the computers, just to see if we have any unwelcomed guests."
“Good,” Zeyk said with a nod. “All right, folks. We need to start work. I’m going to start handing out tasks, based on everyone’s specialities.”
“Sounds good, boss,” Olivia said with a wink.
“First thing,” Zeyk said, scratching at his chin. “Don’t call me boss. It’s time we start addressing everyone according to the code names we’ve discussed.”
James nodded and said, “That would be best, especially from a legal standpoint, yes?”
Andre laughed and added, “Of course. Revolutions are rarely done in the open. Zeyk—I mean, Defiance—what do you have planned for our recruitment?”
“Aristotle’s right, folks,” Zeyk said. “Our first concern should be building up our numbers. I think if we work on the individual tasks I’ve laid out on the terminals, we can get the ball rolling. James—I mean Shield—will take care to screen all potential recruits. Olivia—Monkey Wrench—will help us with logistics, and Aristotle and I will deal with legal and other recruitment issues.”
“Sounds like a plan, Defiance,” Olivia said. She pushed up from the couch, dusting herself off. “I’m likin’ the idea of giving the IMDC a big ‘fuck you.’”
Zeyk smiled at this and said, “Well, let’s get to work. We’d better make it a late night, too. We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to get the ball rolling.”
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