My exploration of Mars Colony Ares Prime in 2029 as documented on Dec 1, 2024
Life on the Red Chessboard
Life on this Martian chessboard is, in a word, strategic. It feels strange to describe life here without accidentally classifying myself as part of the colony's 'tactical reserves,' given that every aspect of existence has been folded neatly into the rules of an ancient board game. I stepped out of my rover earlier today, only to be met by a stern clerk demanding I declare whether I was entering as a 'pawn,' a 'knight,' or—in the most ambitious cases—a 'queen.' Apparently, my identification as a neutral observer wasn't an acceptable opening move, so I had to settle for 'pawn.' It's no longer just a figure of speech here—it’s reality.
The colony sprawls comfortably across the volcanic slopes of Pavonis Mons, its amenities as sparse and efficient as its strategic design. There’s none of the usual haphazard charm of early Earth-based settlements, no half-finished buildings hastily patched with duct tape. Here, each habitat forms part of a greater grid. Pure logic dictates this spatial organization, whether it’s oxygen processors or hydroponic farms. Engineers I’ve spoken to take great pride in explaining how the entire layout mirrors a chessboard. I confess, it’s effective. But it makes you wonder: if you live your entire life inside a strategy, where do personal decisions fit in?
A person’s role on Mars is rigidly defined by this chess hierarchy, from the literal pawns who maintain the local waste reclamation center to the high-ranking 'queens' and 'rooks' who form the colony’s governing council. As absurd as all this sounds, I was starting to see the appeal of gamifying life until I met a tight-lipped woman at the colony's communal dining hall. She introduced herself as one of the 'Rooks of Atmospheric Regulation' and kindly asked me to vacate my chosen spot at the table since my placement didn’t adhere to the proper 'bishop diagonal' alignment. Apparently, dining hall rules recommend (read: mandate) seated arrangements inspired by chess formations. You have no idea how humiliating it is to be subtly 'outed' as a strategic liability during dinner in front of strangers.
Walking around, it's clear that society here isn’t just influenced by chess—it’s *consumed* by it. Transactions are calculated so precisely that even the smallest tip must be rounded up to avoid 'unbalancing economic clusters' on the colony’s grid system. Witnessing this obsession unravel in real time, at first, felt charming—like watching overly enthusiastic kids explain their favorite games. That is, until I tried buying an oat bar from a vending machine and spent three increasingly awkward minutes debating the definition of 'opening gambit' with a passerby after misinterpreting the coin slot instructions.
"They’ll understand the advantages soon enough,"
What’s really fascinating (and mildly exhausting) is how deeply this chess-infused mentality shapes relationships. Families assign themselves roles resembling feudal hierarchies, with parents deciding to 'crown' or 'promote' their children based on their perceived tactical potential. I met one family who called their youngest 'pawns,' but whispered with pride that their eldest was likely to 'promote into a queen' after graduating from the colony’s elite engineering program. When asked how their kids felt about this ranking system, the mother waved dismissively, as if emotional nuance was beneath consideration. "They’ll understand the advantages soon enough," she said.
Even Mars's justice system follows this grid-based logic. Legal punishments revolve around losing specific degrees of freedom—'pawns' might be reassigned across the colony to specific fields of labor, while 'knights' or higher-ranking professionals could find their lateral mobility revoked altogether. Justice here is defensive and tactical, a never-ending realignment to maintain order. Nobody seems to complain about this draconian system, but it’s hard to know whether that stems from true contentment or strategic resignation. Speaking to a harried janitor in the waste reclamation unit, I asked him what he thought of these policies. He simply shrugged and replied, "The sooner you accept the game, the easier it is to win."
Despite all its largely regimented absurdities, there’s a certain fragile harmony to Mars’s society. Everyone here plays their part, driven by shared logic. It lacks the chaos of Earth’s politics, if nothing else—after all, there’s no better tie-breaker during a government dispute than a high-stakes public chess match. That said, the people here constantly seem to hover on the edge of exhaustion. Private joy is rare in a life that, frankly, feels less human and more… algorithmic. If there’s one thing I miss on Mars, it’s the spontaneity of Earth—not knowing where the next moment might take me.
For now, though, I have no choice but to adapt. Perhaps tonight’s 'Pawn Council' meeting will yield some insights into how to maneuver on this endless game board they call home. That is, if no one accuses me of illegal openings.