The King of Mars

This planet is mine.

It's quiet, beautiful, and I have it all to myself since none of the others like to free walk. They're convinced that something will go wrong and only come outside when necessary, to fix a generator or perform routine checks on the air recyclers. I have to sneak out when nobody's watching and I don't understand why. Unless you’re being a total idiot, you’re more likely to die in the base than out here. But, I guess horrible, machine-related deaths come with the territory. Looking at the dwindling amount of people, I can see why as many safety regulations as possible are imposed upon us. But yeah, I like to live on the edge.

I only wish I didn't need the suit. I wish I could feel the sand and stones between my toes. I wish I could hear the howling Martian wind in my ears, bask in the frozen rays of the orange-pink sunlight. It's beautiful out here, a silent, slumbering giant. Mars is heaven, and it's all mine.

Except for at night I have to give it up. When the sun sets, I let the stars reclaim this giant. Night on the surface of Mars is dark and even I'm not adventurous enough to try and find my way back in the blackness. I could walk right off the edge of a cliff, or fall into a ravine and be trapped until I die, I'm sure no one would come and look for me. However, there is another reason I'm afraid to be outside at night, a reason that a man of science such as myself should scoff at but I can't bring myself to laugh away this fear. The Martians. By Martians, I don't mean natives of this planet. The argument of whether or not there was life here before we colonized, whether or not there is life-in-hiding here now, was settled long ago (the answer is no, of course). The Martians is just a term I coined to describe the feeling I get when I am outside sometimes. The feeling that I'm being watched, followed, hunted, maybe by the silent ghosts of the people that never were. Maybe by the planet itself. Or maybe it's just my paranoia getting the best of me. I prefer to stay away from the Martians.

With a quick glance at the sky, I realized that they will be coming out soon. The atmosphere was becoming the rich, bloody shade of Martian dusk. I'd better hurry and find my water mark. I know this has to be the spot, even though this particular patch of dirt was no different from anywhere else on Mars. This is one of my many talents, an uncanny memory for useless things. I remember the exact positioning for a cluster of pebbles better than I could recall basic principles of aerodynamics. I can describe patterns of erosion on and upturned stone easier than I can tell you how many valence electrons Magnesium has.

When I last walked out here, I threw my marker from a few yards back and… here it is. I bent down to scoop up a small tab of concrete half buried in the sand, something I found discarded in the base. I spent a few hours in my room carving away at it with my hot-knife to fight back boredom. I drew a pattern of circles and lines, and a big A on the opposite side for my name, Aleksander.

I turned the stone over in my hand a few times before hurling it as hard as I could out into the desert. The sky was becoming too dark too quickly, time to head back. Before they come out.