“They chose Mars instead,” says Jim.
The conversation ends as Holtz and Skioth lapse into a sort of communal hypnosis. They continue flying in a line for several hours, judging by the passage of the sun across the sky. Still, it feels like no time at all.
In mid-afternoon, their progress slows as they approach an extraordinary wooden tower extending from out of the water, high into the sky. It is a tripod pointed like an arrowhead at the heavens, reaching hundreds of feet above the ocean’s surface. At first, Borman figures it for some sort of beacon. Then he sees a small figure plummet from the topmost level down to the water far below. It looks like an act of suicide, particularly when the person fails to surface.
Seeing his concern, Holtz assures him nothing is wrong. “This is the Ritual of Elements.”
“OK…?”
“It’s a rite of passage,” says Jim. “The best way I can describe it is to say it’s a survival test.”
“Survival? Surely the fall’s enough to kill you.”
“On Earth perhaps,” says Skioth. “Here the elements behave differently.”
“You are right,” says Holtz, shaking her head in amusement at her husband, “there is danger. It is part of the ritual. Without the risk of death, there would be no point.”
“What exactly is the point?” asks Borman.
“To attune to the water. By sinking to the floor of the ocean and remaining there for a day and a night.”
“How do you breathe?”
“You don’t,” says Jim. “How incredible is that?”
“They hold their breath for a day?”
“No,” says Skioth. “For the time under water, the participant no longer requires breath. This is the test — to become a part of the ocean. Every time a Martian takes on a new life, the ritual is repeated.”
“Instant evolution,” says Jim.
Borman, who doesn’t quite know what they’re getting at, says, “My dad just took me fishing.”
39
It is almost dark when, low on the horizon, Borman notices the fiery red path of the Phobos Monument once again burning a path across the Martian upper atmosphere. He points to it. “How long is that going to keep happening?”
“It is our warning,” says Skioth. “It will continue to burn until the crisis of your arrival is dealt with.”
“Precisely how far into space does Martian influence extend?” Borman asks them.
“We control everything within the planet’s magnetic field,” says Holtz, her words serving to underscore the extent of the harm done to them by the Ryl.
In the fading light, Holtz and Skioth take them down low to where the ocean glimmers red, reflecting the dusk. They remain just above the surface of the water, so low Borman can taste the salt of the sea spray from the waves below. Occasionally a spray of water hits his face, icy cold but exhilarating; it’s almost like they are sailing. Jim stands right on the leading edge of the craft, where the spray is heaviest, laughing like a kid as a wave rises up and drenches him from head to foot.
Borman is quite happy to remain in the center of the disc where there is far less lateral movement. He keeps his gaze firmly on the way ahead. He looks down at himself, realizing he’s dressed in the same shorts and T-shirt in which he arrived. He senses the air temperature falling and knows he should be shivering with cold, yet he feels fine. The Martians are controlling the temperature. More likely they’re controlling his perception of it. He can’t pretend to understand how their mental communion works, but at this moment he’s thankful for the warmth and comfort.
When jagged mountain tops begin to peak above the ocean ahead of them, the craft begins to slow. As they move closer, the peaks begin to rise sharply into steep escarpments with waves crashing wildly around their base.
“Rabellex Island,” says Holtz. “Capital of the Martian enclave.”
It can be no coincidence that in designing an entire planet for their own purposes, the surviving Martians chose to sequester themselves inside an impenetrable island of rock, in the middle of a vast ocean. As if they are still awaiting attack in the very fortress world they created.
Where waves crash into walls of stone, Borman sees deep into aqua shallows. In calmer rock pools, large schools of fish swim in dark clouds, in and out of tiny inlets and caves carved from the rock by the pounding sea. Just as he’s convinced they will crash right into the mountainside, their craft changes direction. Gaining altitude, they begin to weave a passage between the mountain peaks to penetrate the island’s spectacular interior.
Below, he sees an ancient rainforest carpeting a valley, walled on either side by near vertical cliffs. They pass a flock of red parrots that appear untroubled by their presence. They actually fly closer in order to satisfy their curiosity at this oddity in their air space. They squawk and sing, chattering excitedly to one another, flying circles around each other and taking turns to swoop on the disc in reconnaissance. More signs of intelligence among the animal population. Borman looks at Holtz quizzically. Immediately understanding his question, she nods. “They understand we mean them no ill.”
As they penetrate further into the island’s interior, Borman notices snow on the mountaintops, though still he feels no cold. The ocean remains visible, both in the distance behind them, and beyond the other side of the island. Once more, the water stretches to the horizon, where the sun is starting to set.
Amidst the highest peaks at the island’s center, a good ten miles from the coast in all directions, lies the heart of the Martian capital. It is unlike any modern city on Earth Borman can recall, but it reminds him of the ancient Incan citadel of Machu Picchu, or at least what it might have looked like in its heyday. There are no high-rise buildings. Nothing is more than three or four stories above the raw stone of the mountain itself, and each seems to emerge from the stone like a flower from a tree branch, as if the structures themselves are the work of nature. A mountainous plateau is covered in these oddly shaped rock-hewn structures, seemingly ad hoc, yet distinctly ordered in rows and patterns like a farmer’s crop. Borman notes various designs among the buildings. Many of them are curved and twisted in ways that bear distinct similarities to rooms and living spaces in Holtz’s home.
The city must surely be unreachable by any means other than flight. Holtz and Skioth clasp arms as their craft falls slowly to the ground. Upon touching down on a vast, protruding plateau, their flying craft dissolves into the stone like an ice cube instantly turned to water, leaving them once more on terra firma.
Holtz turns to them. “Welcome to Firawn. Source point of the modern Martian people.”
Beyond the short plateau, Firawn now lays hidden behind a rock promontory. No one else is present for their arrival, which strikes Borman as odd. They are most definitely expected. Skioth leads them across the platform to an entranceway carved into the mountain. A tunnel takes them inside the rock face and up a flight of stairs to a short terrace. But from here, there is no path to the city below. They are stranded upon the mountaintop. The face of the mountain below them is nearly vertical. It would be suicide to attempt climbing down without the proper equipment and there is no other obvious means of descent.
Below — or is it above — the streets of the citadel open up before them in all their grandeur. The perspective is strange, like an Escher puzzle. It’s hard to tell up from down. The more he stares, the more the streets themselves begin to shift and change. He closes his eyes, convinced he’s seeing things, but it looks the same when he opens them again. Buildings fold into one another, streets appear and then disappear. The ground turns upside down and then folds itself in on the sky like a kaleidoscopic implosion, springing back into a new version of the city where everything looks different. There is no sign of habitation.