The King of Mars

I managed to make it home without anyone seeing me; well, besides a custodian and a few giggling children loitering in the sterile, linoleum corridors. All of the adults were still at their various jobs, kept constantly busy by the scheduling of our relentlessly self-preserving lifestyle.

In the Hex, you are assigned your first job at the age of 13. The majority of those jobs are just generic busywork for the purpose of adaptation to the adult work week, like assisting the custodians or nurses. Eight to twelve hours out of each day, every single day, repairmen patrol the spotless insides of the Hex and the scientists pour themselves over lab tables. Right now, I was supposed to be with Professor Vandrande, probably to help him find some old, obscure textbook or organize his filing cabinets, the usual stuff. But the professor is very relaxed and laid back, he never minds when I come in late. Since I started helping him when I was 13, him and I have formed a unique type of bond.

I'm not entirely sure what Vandrande even does, but whatever it is, it must be important. He is one of the few scientists that have seen the inside of Lab O (O for “Off limits”) and are allowed to return to the outside. I've asked on several occasions what goes on in there, but like the other few, his lips are sealed tight. Whenever I bring up the topic, he steers me away by an interesting lecture or demonstration.

In my eyes, he is the smartest man in the Hex. I first met the prof 12 years ago; he substituted for our instructor who had come down with an illness. He didn't teach our class like our regular instructor, he didn't stick to the lesson plan at all actually. Instead, he filled our little heads with tales of a long gone place called ancient Rome. He called the subject history, the story of when the Earth was still clean, still home to our species. It captivated us because ever since we were young, our studies consisted purely of the math and the many fields of science and engineering. Even though everyone knows that there are warehouses full of old relics and libraries of dusty books, no one is allowed to touch them, they're purely for preservation. My generation knows nothing about literature or art, nothing about Leonardo da Vinci or Charles Dickens or Francisco Goya or even Stephen King. I'm very lucky to have been assigned the prof, who has taught me so much more than anyone ever dared to.

I hastily went to the professor's living quarters after fetching a new jumpsuit. This time through the corridors, I didn't even see a stray group of little kids, didn't see a custodian, the Hex was perfectly silent beside the ever present mechanical hum. The silence always puts me on edge, which was already bad enough considering the events from earlier. I pressed the buzzer next to the sliding metal door, silently willing the professor to hurry and open it. I gave a small sigh of relief when it finally slid open with a gentle hiss and, looking up and down the eerie hallway once more, stepped inside.

Vandrande greeted me with his usual friendliness, he was always happy to see me. He is the only person to know about my frequent trips to the outside, well, apparently besides Rina, and is fascinated by my boldness. Most people, even the other adults call the professor erratic, but no one has really gotten to know him. The official story says that Vandrande came here in a coma when the bombs fell, along with the rest of the other adults. Before the bombs fell, the Hex was an experimental colonization habitat, a foot in the water type deal. With the advent of the nuclear apocalypse, the trial became a necessity as the last and best hope for the survival of the human species.

Vandrande tells me otherwise. He tells me that he spent a number of years on the destroyed Earth. He tells me that, before the war, he was a very important government official. Vandrande says that he knew the end was coming and decided to stay and see it through; he evaded the authority’s intent on bringing him to the shuttles when they left for Mars. First I asked him how he even got to Mars in that case. Apparently his work was so important that they continued to track him down. He told me that it was absolutely imperative that I never let slip that travel between the two worlds was possible. First of all I knew that no one would believe me and I’d most likely get in trouble for spreading antidisestablishmentarian rumors. My question after that was why. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to stay on a doomed world and face sure death?

I'll remember his answer forever. He smiled and chuckled at me, a glimmer in his wrinkled eyes. "Obviously, death isn't as sure as you make it out to be."

We never talked much about Earth after that, unless he was telling me about forgotten tales of great conquerors like Attila the Hun or the struggles of the unfortunate Edgar Allan Poe. One of my favorite stories is that of a man named Alexander the Great, for obvious reasons, the old King of Macedonia forged one of the greatest empires of ancient history and sort of shared my name.

"What have we been up to today, young Aleksander?" Vandrande asked me, his soft voice floating to me over his shoulders as he stretched to retrieve a textbook from one of the wall to wall bookshelves.

"I got caught coming back from outside," I stated, moving over to his desk and leaning against the mess of papers.

Vandrande stopped moving in his tracks. Arm still outstretched, he turned to me with panic in his sharp, grey eyes. "By whom??"

"Rina J'An." I said, recalling with a scowl how the girl had forced me to walk back home in nothing but my boxers. I saw the color drain from Vandrande's face.

"Oh no. Her father-"

"I thought the same thing at first." I cut the old scholar off. "But she says she won't tell on me if I take her outside next time I go." At that, Vandrande started laughing at me. "This isn't funny." I barked. "I don't know what to do."

"The answer seems clear to me," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "show the young lady the time of her life."

"I'm glad you find this so amusing." I grumbled. "Anyway, is there anything you want me to do today?"

"Actually no," the professor said, again busily pulling down yet another book from the shelves to add to his arms. I never understood why he doesn’t just use the database from his computer, instead choosing to fawn over those dusty old things. "I'm quite preoccupied today; you can go home if you wish."

"...Is everything okay?" I asked. Though we rarely did much work, he also rarely sent me home early. The professor always had something to say, always had something to tell me, was never too busy to talk with me. The way he was so focused on this task, whatever it was, unnerved me. I caught the title of one of the books on his desk, something about DNA and genetics, a field that I am embarrassingly terrible at.

"Do you ever have that feeling like something monumental is about to happen? Not necessarily bad, but important?" Vandrande asked, so quietly I barely heard.

"Is it Lab O stuff?"

The old professor afforded me a quick glance and a small smile. "You best be running along. I'll see you tomorrow at this time. Have fun on your date and as always, be exceedingly careful."