Menzel shows his face, albeit from a safer distance this time. “Tell him about the Russians.”
Borman asks, “Is Dobrovolsky still alive?”
Skioth pauses, like he wants Borman to work it out for himself. Finally, he says, “Did it not seem strange to you that both men could speak English?”
Borman shrugs. “Doesn’t everybody understand one another here? Isn’t that how this place works?”
“Martians know how to make ourselves understood. This is our collective will,” says Holtz.
Skioth says, “The Russians have no such ability.”
“Lucky for me they could speak some broken English.”
Menzel says, “Except neither of these men speaks English.”
Borman sighs. They’re tag-teaming him. “What are you telling me?”
“I am no murderer,” says Skioth.
“You’re telling me you faked Viktor’s death.”
“It’s more than that,” says Menzel. He’s whispering now, like the truth is too delicate to say aloud.
“The Russians were never here,” says Skioth. “We created them. That is — these words are so inexact — the Russians were not real. They were manufactured from archetypes in your subconscious and projected back at you.”
“What sort of sick game is this? You used my own thoughts against me as a form of torture. How is that not a crime in this perfect world of yours?”
“We acted upon what you yourself believed. Perhaps it would have been better if instead I had chosen this Jesus Christ of whom you are so fond.”
“Careful now,” Menzel warns. “That is sacred ground better left untrod.”
Skioth shakes his head. “Even though he would be loath to afford us such consideration?”
Borman wonders what it is he’s done to annoy this guy so much. Skioth just keeps talking, every word an accusation. “You thought the Russians were involved in your mission. With help from your Dr Menzel, I explored that possibility in the hope of shaking the memories loose from your head. Until Menzel explained this must be an assumption on your part. That no such cooperation existed.”
Borman says, “Didn’t think to let me in on the secret, Donald, thanks for that buddy.” Everyone else wants answers, but nobody’s giving him any. “What do you mean the Russians were ‘manufactured’?”
“They were phantom hallucinations we placed inside your head,” says Skioth. “We do not create sentient beings. We may have the ability to do so, but it is a fundamental tenet of Martian law that we do not. This has long been forbidden among our people.”
Not real? He ponders this a moment. He realizes he never actually touched the Russians. Never shook their hands. But they seemed as real as anyone he’s ever met. Meaning he can’t even trust his own senses.
He starts to feel shaky on his feet, like the world is starting to spin too fast. He takes a step backward in an effort to steady himself, but the ground underneath him is shifting too quickly. If the Russians were never here, how did he get to Mars? The answer to that question seems more elusive than ever. Now it hardly seems like his most pressing concern. He’d placed all his hope in Menzel, believing the scientist was here to take him home. Now Menzel refuses to leave… In this, somewhere, is the heart of the paradox.
Skioth and Holtz are staring at him in pity and expectation, as if hoping he has finally worked it out. And then he does — the pieces snap together and he realizes he’s known since he awoke from his dream of the vanishing capsule. Borman points at them. Not directly at them, but beyond them, at Menzel, and they know he’s worked it out. “He didn’t come here from Earth either, did he?”
Holtz shakes her head. “No.”
“And you didn’t pluck him from my mind. But he’s real. I touched him. He’s flesh and blood.”
“That’s right,” says Skioth.
In a strange way, Borman is pleased he’s finally starting to understand. “Meaning he’s mine, this Donald Menzel… I made him.”
The Martians stare back at him solemnly then slowly part, allowing Menzel to step forward. He looks at Borman with reverence and sorrow, like he is ready to say goodbye to a beloved friend now facing a bleak and perilous future. He says, “You brought me to life, Frank. And to answer your next question, yes, I am human. But I am also Martian. I was telling you the truth when I said they won’t miss me on Earth. It’s also why I won’t be leaving Mars.”
His one hope of making it off the planet just disappeared. Presumably, this the very reason his mind found the strength to bring a version of the man to life.
27
They sit on opposite sides of a bright orange table constructed from a peculiarly aromatic resin that is both malleable to the touch yet incredibly strong. It seems to glow from within. Can all Martian objects do that? On the other side of the table, Skioth and Holtz face him like they are sitting in judgment. Menzel sits on his side of the table, which feels like no small concession on his part so soon after taking Borman’s fist in his face. Borman is grateful for the show of support.
Holtz says, “You have broken the law.”
“I had no idea what I was doing, far less any awareness that it was forbidden. Surely you can’t hold me accountable for that.”
Skioth says, “Nevertheless, you are a danger — to yourself as much as us. There are other signs. Other manifestations.”
“Parxotic was nearly killed by a bear in the forest,” says Menzel. “She walked right up to it, because she had never seen a bear before. They don’t have bears on Mars. It almost took her head off.”
“You think I created a bear?” says Borman. “Why the heck would I do that?”
“Most likely as a subconscious manifestation,” says Menzel. “Do you like bears?”
“My dad used to take me fishing when I was a kid. We saw a bear once. We didn’t have a gun to defend ourselves, so we had to make a run for it. Scared the heck outa me. Used to give me nightmares. I wasn’t very well when I was a kid. I used to get a lot of ear infections. Made me a bit timid for a while. Dad made sure we always had a rifle with us on fishing trips after that, but we never saw another bear. I’m not sure he would have had the heart to shoot one if we did.”
Skioth says, “This was your bear. This one we had to kill. And now we remain eternally on guard.”
“I’m sorry,” says Borman. “I’m not doing it on purpose.”
“You Americans — is this to be nature of your foreign policy from now on?” Menzel asks him. “Will you merely apologize for your mistakes and expect forgiveness for unintended consequences?”
“You talk like a foreigner,” says Borman. “But you’re from Earth, remember?”
Menzel shakes his head. “My memories of Earth are but a dream. My world, my only reality, is Mars.” He turns to Skioth. “He is telling us the truth, as he sees it. Our problem is that, like so many of his kind, he is blind to the weight of his own ignorance.”
Holtz asks, “What do you mean by his kind? Humans?”
“Americans,” says Menzel. “I mean politically, not biologically. They do not tolerate the ‘other’.”
“The other what?” Borman asks him, still incredulous, but becoming increasingly angry at what feels strongly like an act of betrayal, to be sitting here facing accusations from the very man who talked him into coming here in the first place.
“The unknown,” says Menzel. “Different worlds, different people, different beliefs. You say you have come here in peace, but I know this was not the intention of those who sent you. Your country can make no claim upon peace, as it wages war upon a people half a world away who, like Americans, merely desire self-determination.”