The school was buried beneath twelve meters of Martian soil, where radiation softened and silence became structural. It had been designed that way on purpose. On Mars, safety was never assumed; it was engineered, monitored, rehearsed.
The boy arrived early, as he always did.
He passed through the pressure seal without breaking stride, his wristband pulsing green as it verified bone density, oxygen saturation, and cognitive readiness. The corridor beyond curved gently, its walls a muted copper-gray that absorbed sound instead of reflecting it. Footsteps were rare. Voices rarer still.
Mars children were taught efficiency before expression.
Gravity here was calibrated to thirty-eight percent of Earth standard. Light enough to forgive, heavy enough to remind. The boy moved with a practiced economy—no wasted motion, no sudden turns. His body had grown in this gravity. His bones had learned its limits. His muscles trusted it.
Earth gravity, he had once heard, felt like drowning in air.
The classroom recognized him as he entered. The floor adjusted by a few millimeters. The desk rose to match his height. The wall-screen dimmed slightly, compensating for the dilation of his pupils. There were twenty-one students in the room, seated in a shallow arc. No one spoke.
There were no windows.
Windows were considered distractions. Mars was not a planet that encouraged longing.
The instructor arrived exactly on time.
She was tall, even by Martian standards, her movements deliberate, almost geometric. Her name appeared briefly on the wall behind her—INSTRUCTOR HALDEN—before dissolving into the lesson header.
INTERPLANETARY SYSTEMS: EARTH
The image bloomed across the screen.
Blue. White. Whole.
Earth rotated slowly, serenely, its cloud systems pristine, its oceans uninterrupted by storms large enough to be named. A thin green overlay traced stabilization zones. Data scrolled at the margins—atmospheric recovery indices, population containment metrics, energy redistribution graphs.
Stabilized.
Recovered.
Non-critical.
The boy felt a faint tightening in his chest. Not fear. Not excitement. Something quieter.
Skepticism.
"Earth," Instructor Halden said, "was humanity's origin point. It is no longer its axis."
Her voice was calm, uninflected. Martian educators were selected for clarity, not charisma.
"Following the Exodus Accords, intervention protocols were enacted. Environmental collapse was slowed. Systems were reinforced. Governance was decentralized."
She gestured, and the data shifted.
"Earth is now self-sustaining."
The boy's eyes lingered on the image longer than regulation recommended. He had seen this picture before. Everyone had. The same angles. The same color corrections. The same reassuring overlays.
Too reassuring.
He glanced at the student beside him. She was already taking notes, her stylus moving in short, precise strokes. No hesitation. No questions.
He looked back at the screen.
If Earth was stable, why did the image feel curated?
"Martian policy," the instructor continued, "prioritizes sustainability over expansion. Our role is preservation, not return."
The boy raised his hand.
It was a small movement, but it fractured the room.
Instructor Halden paused. Just for a moment. Half a second, maybe less. But on Mars, pauses were noticed.
"Yes?" she said.
The boy stood. Protocol demanded it.
"If Earth is self-sustaining," he asked, "why are departures still restricted?"
The question landed badly.
The room went still—not dramatically, but completely. Even the ambient hum of the climate system seemed to recede.
Instructor Halden studied him. Her gaze was not unkind, but it was precise, like a scan.
"That question," she said at last, "is outside your curriculum."
The boy felt heat rise to his face. Not embarrassment—Mars children were trained past that—but frustration.
"With respect," he said, carefully, "curriculum exists to explain reality."
A few students shifted. Minutely. Enough to matter.
The instructor's expression did not change.
"Reality," she replied, "is filtered through necessity. Sit down."
He obeyed.
The lesson continued, but the boy heard very little of it. His attention drifted back to the image of Earth, to the flawless blue sphere that did not match the fragments he had once seen in an unindexed archive—a coastal city half-submerged, a skyline leaning like tired teeth.
Images that had been removed.
When the lesson ended, there was no bell. Mars schools did not use bells. Students rose in unison, efficient and silent, and filed toward the exit.
Instructor Halden's voice stopped the boy just before he reached the door.
"Stay."
The others left without looking back.
She approached him slowly, hands folded behind her back.
"Curiosity is not a flaw," she said. "But timing is a discipline."
"Yes, Instructor."
"Earth is… complicated."
He met her eyes. "So is omission."
For the first time, something flickered across her face. Not anger. Not approval.
Concern.
"You will be reassigned this afternoon," she said. "Logistics division. Temporary."
The boy blinked. "I didn't request—"
"I know."
She turned away, signaling the end of the conversation.
The corridor outside felt longer than usual.
He followed the directional lights toward Transit, his wristband updating his schedule in quiet pulses. The reassignment was real. No explanation attached. Just coordinates.
Logistics was closer to the surface.
Too close.
The air grew drier as he walked. The walls thicker. Emergency signage more frequent. He passed storage bays, maintenance hubs, sealed hangar doors he had never seen before.
His wristband vibrated.
DESTINATION UPDATED.
He slowed.
The arrow on the floor shifted, pointing toward a corridor marked RESTRICTED – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
The boy hesitated.
On Mars, rules existed because mistakes were fatal. But so was ignorance.
He stepped forward.
The corridor opened into a hangar—vast, dimly lit, alive with quiet machinery. A single transport vessel sat at its center, sleek and compact, its hull marked with supply insignia.
Cargo.
His wristband pulsed again.
CONFIRM PRESENCE.
He did not understand why the system accepted him.
He did not understand why the ramp was lowering.
He did not understand—until much later—that history often hinged on errors so small they felt like permission.
The doors sealed behind him with a sound too final to ignore.
And somewhere above the Martian surface, engines began to warm.
Gravity shifted.