In the 25th Century, the vast engineering feat of terraforming Mars was finally deemed, announced, and celebrated a success. Not by the engineers or the geologists. Not by the scientists.
The planet itself made the announcement with its first-ever spontaneous thunderstorm.
The word success, for those on Mars who had witnessed it, seemed an exaggeration, even funny; the thickening of the atmosphere was still in progress back then and still required the breathing assistance of OxyVents for those who dared to inhale out-of-doors. And announcement seemed a somewhat premature declaration, the thinness of the atmosphere presenting the thunder to human ears four octaves higher than the roar of Earth thunder, as if a vinyl record had been played on an antique 78-RPM phonograph, reducing a bone-rattling planetary phenomenon to a cartoon sound effect. Nevertheless, the psychological victory went public as a monument to the next step in humanity’s evolution.
And to capitalism and the business model.
For the terraforming of Mars, too expensive for nations alone to pursue alongside the crippling obligations of their societal entitlements, necessitated partnerships with the incorporated rich of Earth –Big Energy, Big Pharma, Big Comm, Big Transport, Big This and Big That.
From the beginning, the terraforming of Mars was a business relationship between nations and the companies large enough to take the investment hit first in exchange for the payoff later. And so it was that the ballyhoo of terraforming was seized and hyped and was as profitable as any insider trading. The initial payoff for corporate investors was inflationary only: stocks rose to new heights and titans of industry towered even higher. Suddenly Valles Marineris was sexier than Silicon Valley and more intoxicating than Napa.
Participating nations waxed idealistic with proclamations of a new sphere of peace in the solar system, destined to host the best that Earth had to offer. Mars vigila, borrowed from Latin literature, was the official triumphant slogan:
“Mars, awaken!”
Meanwhile, the thunder on Mars sounded comically falsetto and anemic, an adolescent’s voice breaking. Mars boasted, Earth cheered, but the handful of colonists remained strangely silent, pressing on in pursuit of real red thunder, which would take another busy sixty years.
DIARY ENTRY OF JON LATORELLA, PERSONAL SOL 4,090
This is as good a place as any to begin my journal. By good place, I don’t mean this place—Mars, just the place I’m calling Page 1. But maybe I do mean the place, Mars, because that’s what’ll make it so interesting, right? Perhaps one day it will be a best-seller.
My name is Jon Latorella. I am 85 years old, although that doesn’t really matter. I’m a Telomorph, and because of my telomere and mitochondria manipulation, I should be able to live, well, forever. The Fountain of Youth. We humans were looking for it even before Ponce de Leon, so I suppose this is a golden age that’ll see my own golden years go on to be my platinum years, then my diamond years, then—well, I’m an engineer, not a romantic. But I know I don’t regret it. There’s been talk of making a law that limits the life expectancy of new Telomorphs to 150, but the way I understand it, I’m grandfathered in, which is a pretty funny way to put it.
As a geologist, I’ve been selected to be one of the observers for the moon crashes. It’s all part of the terraforming protocol. There won’t be anything interesting to write about before then, but if there is, I’ll put it in. Otherwise, I’ll just wait until Sol 4,100.
TO BE CONTINUED on PART 2, SOL 4100