Scene 16

Noel has her phone out before her plate is in the sink.

"Oh my God. Dad. Dad. You have to see this."

Marcus looks as she holds the screen across the counter. It's something Aion just posted online. He dries his hands on a towel and watches.

Split screen. Top: Osterman from a recent interview, sleeves rolled, radiating confidence. Bottom: Wide angle on an Ares Frontier launch pad.

"In rocketry, if you can't stomach a few explosions, you don't belong in this business." Osterman says as an Ares Titan clears the tower and starts a slow, almost graceful roll to the left. The engines gutter and the vehicle comes apart in a bloom of white and orange. A caption reads: Fuel mixture ratio sensor incorrectly calibrated.

"We learned as much as possible from each loss—" Another launch. This one makes it higher before something inside the engine bay detonates and the bottom third of the rocket simply ceases to exist. The rest seems to hang in the air for a moment, before gravity takes over. Caption: Inadequate turbopump design tolerances.

"—and we never repeat a mistake."

A third launch. This one is beautiful. The Titan rises on a perfect column of flame, punching through a thin cloud layer before a seam opens along the fuselage. The vehicle unzips itself lengthwise and blooms into a second sun, hanging in a clear blue sky. The caption says: Structural joints overcome by max-Q vibration harmonics.

Full screen cut to a Titan high above, about to escape Earth's gravity, a swell of triumphant music. The rocket, a barely visible speck, vanishes in a tiny flash and puff of smoke as a logo and slogan appear against the blue sky:

ARES FRONTIER

New Mistakes Every Time™

Marcus feels his jaw tighten. "Got any new rants from Senator Chen?"

"This morning she said if a sentient AI showed up at the Senate's AI sentience hearings and proved it was sentient, the majority would vote to investigate aliens instead."

"I wouldn't be surprised," Marcus says.

Mara leans against the counter, one hand absently rubbing her collarbone. "Feel like a walk?" she asks. "The garden should still be open."

Marcus smiles at her. "Sounds nice."

Noel waves without looking up from her phone.

Outside, the air has cooled. Dusk is settling over the neighborhood. They walk the same route Marcus takes most mornings. An autonomous delivery van hums past. As they walk by the recessed alcove of a vacant storefront, Marcus sees movement in a sleeping bag. A new sign in the nail salon window reads: NAILS DONE BY HUMANS

Mara takes his arm.

"I'm worried about Noel," she says.

"Noel's fine. She's more together than I was at her age."

"Did she talk to you about Sophie?"

"Sophie Park?"

"Sophie's gotten into some kind of—community. Wellness thing. Intentional living. Noel says she's completely different. She used to be anxious, stressed. Now she's—"

"Not?"

"Serene. Sends Noel articles about finding your center and being present. Told her she stopped watching the news because it was 'feeding the wrong energy.'" Mara shakes her head. "Noel says it's creepy. But the thing is—Sophie's grades went up. Her parents think she's doing great. She seems happy."

They cross the street. A coffee shop is closing up, the owner pulling in a sidewalk sign. Marcus holds the thought.

"Maybe we should look into it," Mara says. "For Noel. She's been so stressed about school. About—everything."

"You want to sign Noel up for a wellness cult because she's not an A student?"

"I want to sign Noel up for something that might help her cope with a world that's falling apart." She squeezes his arm.

Marcus lets it go. He's not sure why it bothers him.

They turn the corner and the community garden opens up ahead of them. It's larger than Marcus realized. He passes it every day without looking, but from the entrance it stretches half a block deep—the full footprint of the building that used to occupy the lot.

Someone has built raised beds from reclaimed lumber. Tomatoes, peppers, herbs in labeled rows. A free library made from scrap wood and a glass door. A bulletin board with handwritten cards: Electrician—will trade for produce. Childcare co-op. Free guitar lessons, ask for Jeff. Two kids chase each other between the rows while a woman who might be a grandmother watches from a bench, reading a paperback.

Mara leans her head against his shoulder. "This is nice."

It is nice. People building something small and real in the wreckage of something big and broken. No one here is waiting for an algorithm to tell them what to feel.

"We should bring Noel here," Marcus says.

"She'd love the library."

They walk deeper into the garden. The light is amber and low, filtering through a canopy of runner beans on a wire trellis that someone strung between two posts. Mara stops at a bench near the back, surrounded by sunflowers that are taller than she is.

"Can we sit for a second?"

Marcus looks at her. She looks pale.

"Hey," he says. "You okay?"

She sits down carefully. Her hand goes to her collarbone again. She closes her eyes and takes a breath that she seems to need more than she should.

"Mara."

"I'm fine. I just need a minute."

He sits next to her. But she doesn't look fine. Her hand is trembling. There's a sheen of sweat on her forehead despite the cool air. The way she leans forward, it's like the simple act of sitting upright is an effort.

"We should go home," Marcus says. "Or I can get the car—"

"Marcus," she says, her eyes closed. "There's something I need to tell you."