“What do you make of it, X?” a voice whispered with apprehension, echoing off the steel canisters of Oxygen that aligned among the corridors of the lab.  There was minute silence, disrupted only by a discharge of pressure from the ventilation system that could be found curving among the dome-like structure of the observatory. 

X approached an illuminated projection of the current world of human inhabitation, Mars, tracing his finger along a thin ribbon of crimson that highlighted the Northwest edge of the planet. 
“Volcanism,” he hummed, pulling away the pad of his index as his lips emitted the crackling sound of mock explosion. 
“That’s ridiculous, I mean, it has to be!  The Mons have been inactive for billions of years!” Thomas Canan, Director of Atmospheric Observation spat with disbelief.  Shaking his head and wringing his hands, he continued, “You can’t tell me a concentration that rich in Sulfur Dioxide is the result of two weeks of pre-eruptive activity,” he mused.
“We’ve been terraforming the planet for less than two centuries, what did you expect?  A holiday in the sun?” X sighed leaning into the map in fixed concentration. 
“Well, no, but the pressure and atmosphere have thickened sufficiently to lessen the damage of the gases, so why is there such a profuse increase in heat?”  he questioned.
“Well it seems,” X began while dissembling his pen, “That our electromagnetic field was not as successful as hoped it to be.  Yet on the contrary, we’re being bombarded by a persistent solar wind that is not only damaging the particle barrage established by the FMHP, but is destroying and diverting comets that come within the near reaches of our atmosphere,” he stated matter-of-factly. 
“Well, why can’t we just repair the particle barrage?  If the comets are inaccessible, we already have a sufficient enough supply of carbon dioxide to convert to oxygen for the time being, if we disarray the solar wind, we can cease some of the destruction, and continue to rebuild our atmosphere afterwards.  Let’s see, there are approximately three billion humans assembled in the habitation zone, and eighty six million forms of-” Canan began.   
“That’s a no go,” X stated.  “The Martian electromagnetic field uses a type of hybrid electron that not only stabilizes the core and forms a barrier above the poles, but also uses that generated energy to transmit power to the particle barrage.  In other words, we have three options; address the particles falling into disarray in the core, vacate the planet, or simply put, die off and leave existence to those in the universe more equipped for survival and adaptation,” he ended, peeling a Martian Rookai fruit.
“So that’s all you have to say on the subject,” Canan said while slumping into his chair, peering between a record of recent Earth tremors and his friend’s uninterested gaze.  “Well, first thing’s first, should we release the reports on the Mons, or refrain from planetary panic?” he shuddered in allusion to a public informational gathering in the cities central.
“Are you kidding me?  They’ve never touched Martian soil or brushed the atmosphere, leave their minds as conditioned as the Oxygen and nutrients they breath.  Likely, they haven’t even noticed the temperature change.  As for the tremors, let’s see... denote that as the FMHP beginning a geological expedition on the outer edge of the Mons; I doubt they’ll question, unless they want a first class ticket to experience the festivities of environmental exposure first hand,” he laughed, placing his white coat on a rack mounted above a pod of artificial vegetation that lay coated in patches of moss and greenery.  “They seem to be sprouting well, see, everything arises to satisfactory in the proper conditions,” he smiled, winking to the growing cultures of bacteria and atoms that began their slow journey to something of the visible existence.  Noticing a stem that showed signs of bacterial moisture, he said “However, those that lack these conditions,” he snipped the vine, “will die.”
Canan hesitantly agreed, nervously clutching a report of variations in wind speed through the previous months. “Well, as of now this is all presumption, we can’t be sure the Sulfur Dioxide is a result of volcanic activity, or that this volcanic activity is a result of ill nurtured particles without further investigation into th-”
“But it’s highly probable,” X interjected sipping a dark roast.
“Yes, but as scientists, it’s our responsibility to VERIFY each and every factor before causing a global outcry-”
“I agree completely, now if you’ll excuse me, I have a rendezvous with the District Commissioner of the FMHP about sediment logs and a bit of wine tasting with the members of a higher order, or so they say. It’s a bit of an obligation,” he stated in good humor to his colleague. 
“Of course, as you are then, and... good luck,” Canan wished X, then, turning to a computer generated image of the surrounding Martian atmosphere, began feverishly scanning the developing pockets of gas that began to cultivate heated regions sprawled above the tops of the rocky outcrops.
“Till tomorrow,” X said, stepping through the compression door. “And, hey, Thomas,” he pressed.
“Yes, what is it,” Canan inquired, looking up with weary eyes from behind his titled frames.
“Audaces fortuna iuvat,” X uttered slowly, then turning on his heel, sealed the slide-lock door.