“I wanted you to know I’m OK, Frank.”
Borman smiles gratefully. “I appreciate that. Of course, I’d also appreciate them not destroying the Earth like you suggested.”
“If it wasn’t me who said it, the idea might have occurred to someone else in that room. And then they’d be taking it a whole lot more seriously, I can assure you.” In this, at least, Borman is relieved.
“We won’t be seeing one another again,” says Solus. He turns and simply disappears. Borman is too tired to be surprised. At once, he feels an incredible weariness overpower him. He lies down on the bed and quickly falls asleep.
In what seems like no more than a moment or two, he is standing at the foot of the bed, watching himself. Holtz is at his side. Though he can’t recall her entering the room, he realizes he has been expecting her. She says, “The Befalyn created human beings as slaves. They will never see you as equals, any more than you would impart such status upon a cat or a dog.”
He asks, “Will you never make peace with them?”
“Before today, it has never been something they placed any value upon. They are a people who dominate. Taking what they want if it is not given freely by those they subjugate.”
“People change.”
“Most readily when strength deserts them.”
“You think they have an agenda.”
“Of course. Though we disagree on what it is.”
“Martians arguing. What does that look like?”
“Not much to see.” She taps her head. “It’s all happening in here. Many believe we should take the Befalyn at their word. For others, like Skioth and Zisibor, there remains the question of their deeper motivation. We think their power to endure is dwindling.”
Borman says, “I’ve been thinking about the Ryl, how strange it must be to exist on a foreign planet in secret.”
“It’s not so hard for them,” Holtz replies. “They have lived away from their own world for tens of thousands of years. Though you are right in one sense — it has taken a toll on them. On your moon, their resources are limited. On Earth, they exist in small enclaves, hidden from your people or harbored by those who wish to benefit from the association. This is a relationship the Befalyn understand. One they value, based on trade and mutual benefit. They have never demonstrated a propensity for forgiveness or philanthropy.”
“Then it’s as you say, they’re a shadow of their former selves.”
“A wounded animal is dangerous.”
“Why did you abandon me in there?”
“We are not members of the One. We are the Outliers. It is our role to remain separate, so that we remain an outside influence on the thought processes of the collective.”
“Aren’t you afraid one day they’ll just look at you with fear and mistrust?”
“If that ever comes to pass, it will be at the behest of the Collective. With this, we cannot argue.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so trusting.”
“We know one another intimately. There are no secrets. No corrupt agendas.”
“But you’re trapped here. No one gets in, nobody gets out. This isn’t a future for your people, being frozen in amber.”
“We are not yet ready to leave it behind. Maybe that is our greatest weakness, but it is also our strength.”
He sees a sense of sadness in her eyes. “You’re here to say goodbye.”
She smiles, but says nothing. Like Solus, she just turns and fades away.
43
Borman awakes feeling refreshed and knows immediately a decision has been reached.
Getting up, he pours himself a glass of water, and picks up a handful of berries from a bowl someone must have left here while he was sleeping. It’s night now, or at least early morning. Just before sunrise, if his internal body clock is anything to go by.
Through the window, he can look at the city below. It’s bathed in a yellowish half-light. There are no lamp posts or other light sources he can see. The light simply hangs in the air, like a phosphorescent fog, that he suspects would render the city invisible from higher altitudes. A most beautiful form of camouflage. Whether or not they still believe the Befalyn are capable of attacking them, they remain on guard against the possibility. Yet perhaps now it is Earth they fear.
In the distance, the mountain on which they arrived is silhouetted against the rising predawn glow behind it. He tries to soak up every element of that view, knowing that one way or another he will never see it again. He sees figures moving on the street below, some already at work, others no less busy, but somehow more relaxed, walking for meditation or exercise. He realizes that for all their differences, there is so much about Martians and humans that is the same.
There is a knock on his door. When he answers it, nobody is there. It is a summons. He knows the way. Feeling more than ever like a man condemned, he makes his way back to the chamber. The door swings open as he approaches.
The vast chamber is empty now. He steps inside and walks toward the front of the auditorium, where the six members of the Council of One are seated, waiting for him.
When he looks up at them directly, Morpago nods in acknowledgment. She says, “In thousands of years, there has never been such a strong murmuring of different opinions within our ranks as on this day.” She spits out the word “opinion” like the concept is vile and unbecoming of the Martian sensibility.
“In this,” says Morpago, “Skioth’s words hold true. In extreme circumstances, extraordinary measures are required.”
What does that mean?
“Your continued presence is a danger to us all. We cannot allow you to remain living in our world any longer, Frank Borman. That is the decision of the One.”
There are nods of agreement from everyone assembled, but Borman finds he doesn’t like this newfound consensus.
“Where would you have me go?” he asks.
“Do you accept the decision of the One?”
“What decision? Is this a death sentence?”
“Do you accept?”
He is about to tell her he does not even accept the premise of the question, when her meaning finally dawns on him. It is not a question of death, but a question of trust. The decision is made. They are asking him to respect it.
“All right then, I accept.”
Morpago nods. There is a shift in the room, like something forgotten. Without another word spoken, the Council of One disappears. He feels their absence keenly, knowing they are lost to him forever. In shock, he turns around — the chamber remains empty. He is all alone now.
For the longest time, he doesn’t know what they expect him to do. “Hello? Holtz? Anyone?”
He makes his way back up the central aisle toward the rear of the chamber, past rows of empty seats that now feel as if they have been idle for years. On a seat at the very back of the chamber, there is a lone helmeted figure slumped down as if unconscious. He starts to run toward the figure, realizing it’s not a man, but an empty spacesuit. His spacesuit. His name patch is right there between the NASA symbol and the red infinity loop of the Apollo 8 mission insignia. Everything is here. The helmet, the full suit, his boots. Even his backpack PLSS life support system.
He walks closer to the rear doors of the chamber, but finds them now firmly closed. He puts his hand on the large metal doors. They are ice cold. Painfully so. He pulls his hand back, thankful not to rip the skin off his fingers in the process.
A sixth sense tells him whatever is on the other side of those doors is an entirely different place, and indeed that wherever he is now is no longer in Firawn. Perhaps no longer even on Mars. Through that door is his sentence. He can stay here, or he can be a man of his word: accept their judgment and open the door to whatever awaits.