Arrival

530 ap.A.

You step out of the shuttle, onto the tarmac, and the first thing that strikes you is the sensation of the air. Crisp, cool, and thin.

You make your way down the ramp slowly, awkward in the gravity. Lower than you're used to, but after all the time spent in free-fall on the journey here, you are out of practice.

The second thing that strikes you is the light. It's daytime where you landed, and largely cloudless, but the light is strangely dim. You look up, into the sky, towards the distance-shrunken sun, and you realize why.

Mars. The world stretches out around you. To the East: an impossibly vast mountain rises, occupying what feels like half the horizon. North-East and due South: two more mountains—shield volcanoes. North-West: yet another rises in the distance.

You stand at the foot of Pavonis Mons. You are farther from home than you ever imagined possible.

* * *

You pass through customs easily enough. The few words of français martien you know are enough to see you routed to somebody you actually share a language in common with—Esperanto, in this case, of which you learned on Earth just enough to get by.

The Martian apparatchik sits across the desk from you, asking you questions and filling out a paper form.

She: "Your name?"

You: "Wyatt King."

She: "Where are you from?"

You: "San Cazador, Earth."

She raises an eyebrow as you name a city that was never quite home, but continues on. Earth is vast, and even Terrans do not know all of it, so why should a Martian?

She: "Why are you on Mars?"

You: "I want to live on Mars."

You say this, and she raises the same eyebrow once more, but nods. More quesions are asked of you, establishing your sobriety and fitness for work. Your photo is taken. You answer the questions, and you leave with a visa for provisional residency, an address for temporary housing, a hundred-Mark credit chit, and a ticket for (mandatory) French lessons.

You're tired of running. You hope this is far enough.