Opting to save the Russian’s life had been an honorable move, but it was also a calculated risk. If he’s guessed wrong, at least he will meet his maker knowing he’s done the right thing. But something in the back of his mind tells him Skioth needs him alive.
His captors take him through corridors and across more empty chambers. He can no longer tell where he is in the maze of tunnels, not that the knowledge would be of any use to him. They throw him into a cell that is smaller and more confined than any he has seen thus far. He falls to his knees and struggles to turn around in the limited space. When he turns to look back at the door through which he entered, it is gone altogether.
23
There are no windows in his stone cell. It feels like he’s locked in a crypt. There is no visible entry point and no obvious light source. The walls themselves provide illumination, just enough to ensure he can see the full extent of his incarceration. The cell is only about as wide as a coffin, not high enough to let him stand up straight, forcing him to sit in the corner and stare at the walls.
He tries to focus on his own intention. He aims it at the walls, frowning and staring at the stone, trying to imagine it opening up so he might escape. It gets him nowhere. Either Mars doesn’t respond to his intentions, or his will is being overridden. He finds himself ranging through anger, desperation and even moments of despair. Never has he felt so utterly abandoned. Not by the Martians, but by his own people, who took him from his home and marooned him in a place they will never find him. Nor are they likely to send anyone else to find him. Not with two of them missing.
Hours go by. Maybe days — he loses track of time. He thinks about his family. Wonders what Susan is doing. He prays for her, prays for himself, asks for God’s forgiveness in abandoning his family and tries to imagine how they will live without him. He fades in and out of fitful bursts of sleep that end in nightmarish scenarios, where people he’s helpless to save have their brains scooped out by dark torturers.
Thoughts return to him. Snippets — a conversation with Menzel at a roadside diner in New Mexico. The two of them sitting on shiny vinyl seats, the chrome trim of the laminated table gleaming at him like the personification of all that is good and true about America. Why were they there? He can’t quite remember. It’s a feeling like jet lag; thinking about it makes him so tired it’s hard to focus on the details of the memory.
El Camino. That was its name. In Las Cruces. They ate before heading out to the White Sands missile range. Menzel told him how much he loved Mexican food. Borman was far from convinced this was the place to find it, but ordered an enchilada just the same. He remembers he had a cap on, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized. But nobody there seemed to know or care who they were.
The food was good. He can still taste it. The thought of it now makes his mouth water, reminding him he’s hungry. And thirsty. Then he reminds himself he’s just watched a man die and feeling hungry no longer seems like such a problem. It would, however, be logical to assume he’ll never be eating Mexican food again.
He recalls sitting for some time in Menzel’s car outside the restaurant. They had somewhere to go. Something important to do. But Borman had questions he needed answered. And Menzel had given him something.
Menzel had told him it was a locator disc. “So I know where to find you.”
“With your space-bending gadget?”
“Best not say that out loud, people will think you’re crazy,” Menzel had replied.
They drove across the desert with the windows down, Johnny Cash on the radio singing Folsom Prison Blues. It was hot. He’d burnt himself on the door when he leant his arm on the open window.
Borman had asked him, “How do you justify all this secrecy? As a man of science?”
He said some things were too important to be jeopardized by public scrutiny.
“Or government scrutiny?”
“That too,” Menzel agreed.
“You sound like a Russian,” Borman had told him. “The end justifies the means. It’s a slippery slope.”
“If people knew what I knew — everything Bermuda keeps secret — it would tear this country in half. There’d be riots in the streets. We’d have another civil war on our hands.”
Menzel’s words swirl around in his head on a loop. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but something remains just out of reach. He’s too tired and cold to work it out. He dozes a bit more and manages to find a spot in the corner where he can wedge himself and take the pressure off strained muscles.
He’s still half asleep when the wall in front of him dissolves, revealing the very man he’d been thinking about. He inches back further into his cell, convinced the Martians are trying to mess with his head. He’s all clean. No blood, no bruises. It’s like none of that really happened. He says, “It’s me, Frank. Come on, quick — if you want to get out of here.” He reaches in and grabs Borman by the arm to pull him out of the cell, holding him steady as he slowly tries to stand up straight.
The scientist is all cleaned up, no signs of bruising or blood on his clothing. Borman is immediately suspicious. “What’s going on, Donald?” Nobody escapes this place without inside help.
“I’m getting you out of here.” Menzel has a hold of his arm. He urges him to walk. He’s strong.
Borman gives in and starts slowly putting one foot in front of another. Anywhere is better than that cell. “But who got you out? Where are we going?”
“Back to the surface.”
“We need to find Dobrovolsky. They’ll kill him.”
Menzel stops walking and turns to face him. “There’s no time. Come with me now, or you’ll never get the chance to help him.” It’s a ruse. It has to be. But Menzel asks, “Do you trust me?”
“No.”
“Good,” he laughs. “You’re learning.”
What does that mean? Borman starts coughing and feels his knees buckling. “I need water.” Menzel hands him a flask that Borman had not seen him carrying. The water is cold and almost tastes sweet as it slides down his parched throat. “Come on,” Menzel urges, “we have to keep moving.” He leads the way through a maze of tunnels without once stopping to get his bearings. Within minutes, they are back in the tunnel rising toward the point where Holtz brought him in.
“She’s waiting outside,” says Menzel.
Borman stops dead. “What did you just say?”
“Holtz. She’s outside.”
“How on God’s green Earth could you know that?” He’s hallucinating. They’re inside his head, making him see things that aren’t there. Borman shakes his hand free of the apparition.
“Go,” Menzel urges. “I’m not stopping you.”
“And you’re sure as hell not coming with me.”
“No Frank. I’m not. I’ll be staying here.”
Borman has no clue what to make of all this. But they’re letting him go and he doesn’t want to make too big a deal of it. “What about the Russian?”
“He stays too.”
“Why?”
“Look at me.” Menzel stares deep into his eyes. “It’s really me. Not just some figment of your imagination.” He takes Borman’s hand and lifts it to his own face. “See? Flesh and blood. But I’ll be staying here. Eventually you’ll understand it’s for the best.”
They’ve brainwashed him.