“If something on the level of precolonial life on Mars is going on at that dig site, we have a right to know about it,” he interrupted. “This is our planet! What makes GSAF think that they have a right to access that information, but actual Martian scientists like Erick don’t? Why are we okay with leaving it up to them and their Top Men to cover everything up and keep us in the dark? Not to mention that if they’re doing that, what else are they up to that we don’t know about?”

“Henry, you’re being paranoid.”

He balled his fists. “Why are you so eager to kiss GSAF’s butts, anyway? What have they ever done for you? Apart from completely deprive you of your rights as a citizen?”

Joseph Condor’s creepy eyes stared me down in my mind’s eye. “I’m glad you’re cooperating,” he’d said. “GSAF was a little concerned about your continued presence on site. If you continue to work with GSAF, I don’t foresee a problem.”

What has GSAF ever done for you?

“Um, well, for one thing, they employ my mother,” I said, only half in response to Henry.

“I knew it.” Henry jammed his hands into his pockets, but since the figuscan’s chainmail design didn’t include pockets, his hands just sort of disappeared at his sides. “You get a handout from them, so everything is hunky-dory. Typical.”

“It’s not a handout!” I jumped to my feet in protest, thoughts of Joseph Condor forgotten. “My mom is working her fingers to the bone to ensure that the people on Mars can even live here to begin with! Or do you not like eating? Because I’m pretty sure if you’re eating, you’ve got my mom to thank for it.”

“You know what, Zak?” Henry snapped. “I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. Obviously you like living with your head buried in the sand. Or maybe you think that, since your mom works for GSAF, you’re in a different boat than the rest of us. That it doesn’t matter if GSAF keeps trampling all over us. But I have news for you. Guys like Joseph Condor don’t care where your mom works, or the fact that she was born in California and not in some slum in Mexico City. You’re just as brown as the rest of us, Isaak, and even if you lick their boots, it’s not going to make you one of them.”

My knuckles were white with fury. “Henry, what the hell are you talking about?”