“Every thousand years, we change form,” Holtz explains. “So that we may continue to grow.”
“Male becomes female,” says Skioth. “Child becomes adult. Memories are shared like food. In this way, we continue to evolve.”
“Like reincarnation,” says Borman.
Skioth nods. “Except with no lives created or destroyed.”
“In so doing, we grow closer together,” says Holtz.
“Isn’t that playing God?”
Holtz shrugs. “Perhaps. We have no need for any other gods here.”
“That’s just arrogance.”
“We had a choice as a people,” says Skioth. “Acknowledge the possibility of a God, or forget about it. In your universe, there is a stunning absence of evidence for this God you all appear determined to worship.”
“Which is your choice to make,” says Holtz. “We do not deny a place for God in our universe. He or she is welcome. But the evidence suggests we are doing fine on our own. Indeed, it suggests the force of creation is internal, not external.”
Borman stops dead in his tracks as he realizes their entire conversation is taking place telepathically — since they entered the auditorium no words have been spoken aloud. He stares at Holtz open-mouthed. He tries to say something, but no sound comes out.
“In here,” says Holtz, as if Borman’s thoughts hang like bubbles in the air between them, “only one form of communication is allowed.”
Dyrchel bows and leaves them. She walks to the head of the chamber and levitates slowly off the floor to step upon a raised stage. Seated on this platform, behind an elaborate stone and wooden bench, is what looks to Borman like the full bench of a Martian High Court.
The Council of One.
Holtz and Skioth stand on either side of Borman, and gently lead him down the rest of the way to the front of the auditorium. Holtz says, “There are modern seers among us, but it is possible that they have made the mistake of lending too much weight and reverence to the work of ancient ones.”
“No,” says Dyrchel sharply, her voice now amplified by some unseen means, “there are no mistakes. Only gaps in our understanding.”
Borman looks around once more at the sea of faces staring at him. There are whispers and murmurings. Internal dialogue. Debate. They are deciding his fate.
In the center of the bench, behind which the One are seated, he sees carved symbols of two arms crossed, hands clenched into fists. Strength and judgment.
The Council comprises six individuals, three women and three men. They are the One, so called because the tenet underpinning Martian society is that in all matters of import, there can only be one right way forward. One truth, one road.
At the urging of Holtz and Skioth, who remain behind him, Borman steps forward to face the One. A hushed silence descends over the chamber. He looks at each member of the group in turn. While he cannot say how, the name of each arrives in his head like a form of introduction. Vorp and Dyrchel he already knows. The other four are Winsporg, Morpago, Zisibor and Yondevos.
Morpago is first to speak. “Colonel Frank Borman,” she begins, like a prosecutor reading from a charge sheet.
“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me,” says Borman.
She continues with words that sound to Borman like they have been carefully scripted. “We have deliberated long and hard ahead of your arrival. There are those among us who wish to end your life where you stand for the reckless, chaotic nature of your arrival in contravention of the Prophecy, and for your actions thereafter in creating a life and violating our primary tenet.”
“But…” He stops talking, stunned by the intensity of Morpago’s gaze. It hits him between the eyes like a rock from a slingshot, demanding his silence.
“But it was not your intention to trespass upon our goodwill, this much we know. Thus, for now you are to remain before us. We understand you have a message to deliver.”
“Yes, that’s right. On behalf of the Ryl priestess, Ningal.”
41
The pain of a thousand arrows pierces Borman’s chest as he says her name, an agony shared by every soul in the chamber — an anguish magnified by time. It lies at the heart of everything done by the Martians to better themselves in this world. He feels it keenly here like the pain is his own. Not because it is their intention to hurt him, but because gathered together in this place, pain is what defines them as a race.
His head and ears still ringing from the remembrance of their collective agony, Borman feels he might overbalance at any moment and fall flat on his face. He barely notices Skioth at his side as the Martian begins his testimony to the Council of One. He is surprised to find the pain in his head eased by Skioth’s words, even as they add to the case for Borman’s condemnation.
“Since the moment of his arrival,” says Skioth, “the visitor has been a disturbance among us. His mind corrupts all that he sees. He brought blood-sucking parasites to our forest. This itself was bad enough. They were, however, just the first of myriad hateful demons brought forth from the recesses of his fears. Products of an Earthly nature both misunderstood and abused, signs of the extent to which humans themselves have become an alien presence on their own planet.”
There is a growing sense of unease in the room. Borman is wondering whether to speak in his own defense, when Holtz touches him on the arm, gently telling him to remain silent. He looks at her and see eyes full of compassion and reassurance. Wait, she urges. Wait for him to finish.
“Yet I have seen much in this human that gives me hope. Honesty and integrity, a willingness to learn and an abhorrence for physical violence, such that he was willing to lay down his life to save another. I ask the One to listen carefully to what he comes here to say.”
Holtz steps forward to be on Borman’s other side. She gently runs her finger over the back of his hand, the briefest of gestures, yet more than enough to give him the strength to remain standing.
“For his own part,” she says, “Frank Borman was until yesterday unaware of his power to manifest. He knows nothing of the power of his own mind, indeed his thoughts are easily manipulated. In summary, he is a danger to our world who cannot be allowed to remain.”
She turns to face him now with a fire in her eyes that is not her own. It is the look of the collective. It’s like he’s staring into the eyes of a thousand people all at once.
Skioth continues. “He speaks in half-truths. He has trouble distinguishing between what is real and what is not, both in this world and, it appears, in his own.” He pauses for effect, like a lawyer building his closing argument to a crescendo. “But this is not a situation of his making. I ask that we listen to him and know that with these few words at least, he speaks the truth.”
Borman can now hear the thoughts of the assembled audience. The Council of One, far from being the ultimate arbiter, is merely the focal point for their deliberation. He is witnessing the force of their organic democracy, ideas fighting one another on an evolutionary scale, a telepathic natural selection. A dominant thought in the room rises to the point that it literally overpowers dissent.
Morpago raises her hand. A tiny, almost imperceptible gesture, but enough to immediately quiet the room. She stares at Borman with an intensity that leaves him feeling naked and defenseless.
“Say what you have come here to say.”
He feels Holtz and Skioth slip away from his side, leaving him once more alone before the Council. More alone than he has ever felt in his entire life. “I come here today to deliver you a message from the person… the people who delivered me to you. From the people you call the Befalyn. I do not stand here to defend them for their past actions, nor do I expect the people of Mars will ever forgive what they did to destroy your world. I will deliver my message and afterwards, if you so desire, I will tell you what I think it might mean.”