Matt Eaton

APOLLO 8.1

GRAB A FREE NOVELLA

Sign up to the author’s mailing list and you’ll receive a free copy of SLEEPING GODS, book one of the Verus Foundation Series.

You can find the details at the end of APOLLO 8.1 >>

CHOOSE DEATH

The room is lighter and more comfortable than the cell where the Russians are being held. But Frank Borman knows better than to let a jug of fresh water and a bowl of fresh berries lull him into a false sense of security.

His captor faces him across a table. “Why are you here?” he demands. “You are not working with the Russians. Of this I am certain.”

Borman replies, “Of course I’m working with them — It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“You tell me this because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“No, I’m telling you because it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“To you, nothing makes sense. You cannot even explain to me the means by which you arrived at our doorway.”

“I know the way my leaders think. They want to beat the Russians at any cost. Even if it means working with them in secret.”

Skioth isn’t satisfied. “Then what of the Cosmonauts? What would you have me do with them? I could make them disappear. Would that not suit your purpose?”

“No. Let them go. Let us leave. You have my word I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re left alone.”

Skioth breathes loudly, the air leaving his lungs an illustration of his reluctance. “How are we to trust you, when you do not trust one another?”

Borman shrugs and nods slowly in acceptance. “You’re right. Our two nations are afraid of one another. But there are bigger considerations. I think you’ve demonstrated that much, at least.” He chooses his next words carefully and honestly, fearing his contempt for the Soviets will be the thing they use against him. “Those two men have families too. And a leader who values their lives enormously. Let them go.”

Skioth stares at him for an uncomfortably long period of time, trying to decide. “Yet still there is something you won’t tell me.” He waves his arm through the air in a figure eight and a door appears in the wall, as if by his magic hand. Through the door step the two Russians. They appear bewildered, but utterly unsurprised to see Borman again. They barely even look at him.

“Now you will choose. Which one dies and which one lives?”

Borman is aghast. “What? No…”

“You choose, Frank Borman. Or I will do so for you. Who will die?”

Borman kicks his chair back and stands to meet Skioth. “This is not a choice,” he spits back, “it’s an ultimatum. You do this, the blood is on your hands.”

The Russians say nothing, but they know what’s happening.

“I’ve told you everything I know,” says Borman. “There is nothing else for me to say. Come on… You don’t want to do this.”

Skioth just stares at him with a fierce and unwavering determination. He tips his head sharply to one side and a terrible sound fills the room, giving voice to the rending force of destruction, the sort of noise you’d expect to hear outside the gates of hell. It is the embodiment of wrongness, of annihilation. The body of Viktor Patsayev stiffens, then emits a flash of white as the life force is sucked from his flesh. He is already dead by the time his skin turns translucent purple and his body dissolves into fine particles that gradually wink out of existence.

Georgy Dobrovolsky stares murderously at Skioth, but remains rooted to the spot, either reluctant or simply unable to move.

Skioth says, “Now you see what I can do.”

“Why?!” yells Borman.

“Perhaps I want to start a war.”

“This won’t do it,” says Borman.

“Can you be certain? Your leaders have their fingers poised over the nuclear button and appear eager to use it. It is amazing to us one of you has not already done so.”

“Nobody’s going to start a war over the loss of two men. Not even Cosmonauts.”

“Not even if it is an American astronaut responsible for their deaths?”

“No…”

“Unfortunately for you, Colonel Borman, this is not your biggest problem. Tell me who sent you or decide who dies next — you or Georgy Dobrovolsky.”

There is no fooling Skioth. He will kill them all to get what he wants. But Borman has nothing to give him. Even if he wanted to tell, he wouldn’t know where to start. He’s afraid even to open his mouth in objection, lest his next words be the cue for another killing.

Seeing Borman in crisis, the Russian speaks first. “I am not afraid to die.”

This is too much. Borman shakes his head and smiles ruefully like a condemned man reduced to his bare essence. “No, you don’t. Set him free, Skioth. You wanna kill someone else, it’s gonna have to be me.”

1

By late January 1969, Frank Borman is still one of only three men to have flown to the Moon. Weeks after the event, it still seems almost too incredible to be true. Already this month, they’ve been called twice to the White House by two successive presidents; first by Lyndon Johnson, on his way out the door, but eager to take a moment to acknowledge the bold success of a space program he had championed since early in the Kennedy era. Now Richard Nixon, new to the job and far less vocal in his support for getting men to the Moon, but nevertheless happy to bask in the glory of a successful mission.

The Apollo 8 crew, dressed like they’re going to a wedding, shake the hand of the president one by one. They’ll do it again for the cameras, but this moment alone in the Oval Office is just for them. Something to tell the grandchildren. One by one, Nixon looks them in the eye, obviously enjoying the fact these men of renown are also of equal stature — Lovell, the tallest of the three, is still only Nixon’s height, five foot eleven inches. Being less than six feet tall is important when you have to pack into a space capsule like three people in a telephone booth. Nixon finds himself looking down on Borman, though there’s only an inch in it. Borman grips the president’s hand firmly, noticing how Nixon effortlessly dominates the exchange by placing his hand on top.

“It is a mighty fine thing you men have accomplished,” the president tells them. “I want you to know you have my deepest respect and appreciation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Borman replies, holding the president’s attention with the steely-eyed intensity he inherited from his father. Nixon is the first to look away.

Like a quarterback who spots a gap in the defense, press secretary Ron Ziegler steps up and places his hands on the shoulders of Bill Anders and Jim Lovell. “Now gentlemen, if you’ll just follow me.”

Nixon, they have been reliably informed, wants a quiet word with Borman. He watches bemused as his crewmates depart the Oval, leaving him alone with the president. Nixon points at the couch, and they sit down to face one another.

“I hear you’re one of us, Colonel Borman.”

“If you mean a Republican, sir, then yes. And please, call me Frank.”

Nixon smiles. “Always good to know when your intelligence is reliable. All right Frank, I guess I might as well come right out and say it — I’d like you to take over as the head of NASA.”

Borman is more than a little stunned. “Well, now. That’s a surprise…”

“You have a great head on your shoulders, Frank. I was most impressed with your handling of the Apollo 1 investigation, especially the way you handled Congress.”

“I’m honored, Mr President.”

“I won’t lie to you — there’ll be some changes down the road, once we get those men up there to the Moon. We can’t keep spending money like this.”

He’d heard whispers, of course, about Nixon’s plans to cut the space program. But it’s different hearing it from the horse’s mouth, and so soon into his presidency.

Borman asks, “You’re not talking about scrubbing the Moon landing?”

Nixon holds up his hands in self-defense. “No, no, of course not. We’ll get men on the Moon all right. That’s a foregone conclusion, no holding back that tide now. Need to beat the Russians. I’m talking about what comes next.”

“Tom Paine hasn’t been in the administrator’s job very long, Mr President. He’s only just finding his feet.”

“Which is precisely why I’d like to get you in there, Frank. From everything I’ve seen, you’re a man of your word. That’s a rare commodity in my line of business, believe me. There are going to be some hard times ahead. Tough decisions need to be made.”

“I’d have to give it some serious thought.”

“Of course. You’ll have a few weeks in Europe to talk it over with Susan anyway.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You have friends in Vietnam?”

“I do.”

“It keeps me awake at night. I’ve just seen the latest figures… We’ve lost 40,000 men, spent 70 billion dollars. What do we have to show for it? Now I hate the commies as much as any loyal American, but that rat bastard Johnson damn well knew all along we could never win this war. Yet still he kept digging the hole deeper. He couldn’t see a way out that preserved American prestige. Now that falls to me.”

Nixon laughs humorlessly, suddenly embarrassed by his own candor. “But that is just between you and me, Colonel — Not a word to anybody.”

“No, sir.”

“I guess you better not keep them waiting out there any longer.”

“You’ll work it out, Mr President. I have faith in you.”

Nixon smiles, apparently far less certain, but he shakes Borman’s hand firmly and points him toward the door.

“We’ll talk again, you and I,” says the president.

Ziegler, Anders, and Lovell are waiting in the hall just outside the Oval.

“What was that about?” Lovell inquires.

Borman says, “Never you mind.”

Ziegler leads them around the corner to the Fish Room, where the members of the White House press corps are waiting for their photo opportunity.

In the days since Apollo 8 splashed down in the Pacific, Borman had been slowly coming to terms with the realization the rest of his life would be downhill from this moment. Flying into lunar orbit would stand as the greatest moment of his life. But it was also something he had long known would come to pass. It had been the culmination of years of persistence through many terrible years of death and failure. In being first to set foot upon the Moon, they will prove once and for all the American way of life is superior to that of the Soviets. Mission accomplished. The pragmatist in him is embarrassed by this attention. Every astronaut knows people serving on the front lines in Vietnam, fighting and dying in their own battles to preserve America’s way of life. Who’s shaking their hands?

Since returning to Earth, Borman’s eyes have been opened to miracles. He has peered behind the curtain and into a world where power, truth, and knowledge are more highly advanced and jealously guarded than he could ever have imagined. In so doing, he’s seen wonders beyond the comprehension of even the most brilliant minds, hard at work on America’s manned space flight program. Things that leave him feeling like his grip on reality may be loosening.

After a decade spent furiously pursuing a seemingly impossible goal, the finish line is now on the horizon. He’s proud of his part in that, but he’s also starting to feel like nothing will ever surprise him again. That from now on, everything is possible. Which is why Nixon’s job offer is as perplexing as it is tempting.

Ziegler puts his hand on the door handle. On the other side of the door is a room full of White House reporters. “OK,” he says, “we go in and the president will join us about thirty seconds later. You ready?”

Borman nods, exchanging knowing glances with the other astronauts — the only other people in his life who know what they saw out there on the far side. Since those first few days after splashdown aboard USS Yorktown, none of them have said a word to one another about it. That’s fine by Borman. It’s safer that way.

Flash bulbs start firing as Ziegler ushers them into the Fish Room. Even by White House standards, it’s a big press call. Reporters are four-deep in the room. Will they sense it, these reporters? Will they see in his eyes he’s harboring the story of the century? Even if he told them, they’d never believe it.

Borman knows from experience Mr Nixon will not be the center of attention today. He wonders if the president is ready for that. Lovell and Anders smile and nod sagely, untroubled by the attention. In the past few weeks, they have become accustomed to the circus, calmly and solemnly facing down everybody who has wanted a piece of them. While military types are usually shy and retiring in the face of public scrutiny, astronauts are an altogether different breed. They live their lives in the public eye. Facing reporters is part of the deal. Many actually seem to revel in the attention, possibly because of the associated perks of celebrity, but also because they genuinely believe they deserve it.

Lovell points across the room. “Last time I was in here, JFK’s sailfish was up on that wall. Guess they took that down, huh?”

Neil Sheehan of the The New York Times replies, “It’s fair to say Mr Nixon and JFK never exactly saw eye to eye.”

Carroll Kilpatrick from The Washington Post adds, “The fish came down the day they carted all Kennedy’s other possessions out of here. It’s in the JFK Library in Boston.”

Lovell shakes his head, earning a brief warning glare from Borman. He says, “Seems strange to have a Fish Room without a fish.”

Nixon has the dubious honor of entering at the very moment a roomful of people start laughing at a joke he hasn’t heard. As if he’s the butt of their humor, they hush like schoolboys caught out by the teacher.

The president wastes no time in chasing the source of their mirth. “Wonderful to have you here,” he tells Borman, looking him firmly in the eyes as he offers another firm handshake, before quickly turning his attention to the other two men.

“We were talking about this wonderful reception room of yours,” says Anders, “and how it seems to be missing a fish.”

“Between you and me,” Nixon whispers, “I’m renaming this room. It was the president’s office when they built the West Wing back in 1902.”

“I did not know that,” says Borman, noticing how quickly the president has taken control of the room, while also angling himself in just the right way to ensure he’s facing the cameras at all times. Smart man.

Nixon says, “I want to call it the Roosevelt Room.”

It’s all for show — a repeat performance of their actual meeting a few minutes earlier just across the hall in the Oval Office. Ziegler had explained how it would all go down. The astronauts, no strangers to the media circus, happily played along.

Lovell asks, “Which Roosevelt will you be honoring?”

Nixon tells him, “Both of them.”

“But one of them’s a Democrat,” says Anders.

“Well,” says Nixon, “I try to be a man of the people.” He glances in the direction of the reporters. “By the way, that’s not for publication. I’ll let you know when it’s official.”

Several reporters mumble their assent. Having made sure all assembled had fully captured the moment, Nixon takes his place at the podium to begin the briefing.

“Ladies and gentlemen, these three men who stand with me need no introduction.

“I think, if anything, they are probably better known than the president of the United States, as a result of television and their recent very great exposure for the whole world to see.

“It is my very great privilege today to welcome them not only here again to this house and this office, but to announce that Colonel Borman, his wife, and two sons are going to make a goodwill trip to Western Europe.”

A murmur of appreciation passes through the room.

“As Colonel Borman goes to Europe, he pointed out to me just a few minutes ago that his two colleagues have a mission here at home that they need to undertake and consequently will not be going with him.

“I should also point out that as he goes to Europe, he emphasizes a fact we often forget: that the knowledge which made possible these great discoveries is not limited to this nation; that it comes from the whole history of scientific discovery, and there is certainly no national monopoly on that kind of knowledge.”

2

After what feels like an eternity of glad-handing and pat responses to questions they’d answered a thousand times, the media call finally reaches its conclusion and the astronauts are able to follow the president out of the room.

Perhaps upset at being upstaged in his own theatre, Nixon vanishes back inside the Oval Office without another word, allowing several other nameless West Wing staff to scatter in various directions. Everyone bar Ziegler is out of sight behind closed doors in moments.

“Thanks for coming,” he tells them, “I think that went well.”

“Glad to do it,” says Borman.

Lovell says, “Always a privilege to visit the White House.”

“Again,” Anders adds, grinning.

Ziegler shakes their hands and points to a pair of burly Secret Service agents. “I’m told these boys will show you out. Thanks again.”

The agents begin politely, but firmly, herding them toward a side entrance, until a man they all recognize blocks their path. The smile on Dr Donald Menzel’s face appears genuine enough. “Good to see you gentlemen again.”

“Spotted any bogeys lately, doc?” Lovell asks.

“Nothing to write to Santa Claus about, Captain.”

Lovell grins. “That’s good, I like that.”

Such is Menzel’s oblique way of referring to the unidentified craft the Apollo 8 crew spotted on the far side of the Moon — something very few people know about. When they finally left lunar orbit to head for home, Borman had told Houston, “Please be informed there is a Santa Claus.”

Menzel grins back dismissively, then quickly turns to Borman. “Frank, do you have a minute?” The question is posed more like an order than a request.

Lovell raises an eyebrow. “Now I’m really interested.”

Borman says, “We were just on our way out.”

One of the Secret Service agents says, “It’s fine, Colonel. I think you two need to talk.”

Menzel says, “There, see? Afterwards, I can take you wherever you need to go.”

Borman can see the scientist isn’t going to take no for an answer. He turns to Anders and Lovell and tells them, “Go on ahead guys, I’ll catch up.”

They silently wave their goodbyes. The Secret Service agents split up, one escorting Lovell and Anders, the other remaining behind. Since being anointed the point man on all things unexplainable, Menzel has enjoyed the full cooperation of the Secret Service, an arrangement set in place by President Harry Truman and honored to this day. Though since Eisenhower left, every succeeding president has been kept in the dark about it.

Menzel waits for the other astronauts to disappear, before ushering Borman into a small windowless office to their right. The Secret Service man takes position outside the door.

The room is tastefully furnished with a drinks cabinet and a smallish conference table for meetings of up to eight people. Menzel closes the door behind them. There is a jug of water and two glasses in the middle of the table. Menzel sits down facing the door, placing a thin leather attaché case on the table in front of him. He holds out his arm, urging Borman to take a seat opposite.

“How have you been, Frank?”

Borman sits and pours himself a glass of water. “Busy.”

“So I’ve noticed. No rest for Time magazine’s Men of the Year, eh?”

A less confident man might be troubled by the undertone of mockery in Menzel’s remark. Borman ignores it. “We’ll be yesterday’s news soon enough. Once we get Neil and Buzz down in the Sea of Tranquility, nobody’s gonna be talking about Apollo 8.”

“No regrets about hanging up your space helmet?”

Borman smiles and slowly shakes his head. “I’ve done what I set out to do. We beat the Russians to the Moon.”

Menzel raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Was that truly your main motivation?”

“If it wasn’t for our burning desire to beat the commies, we wouldn’t be going at all. I just helped get it done by President Kennedy’s deadline.”

“Five years in the ground and Kennedy is still a man of his word,” says Menzel. “Of course, the fact that we threw twenty billion dollars at the problem helped things along, wouldn’t you say?” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Along with the bravery and ingenuity of everyone involved.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t call me in here to blow wind up my butt. Wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr Nixon’s job offer by any chance?”

The astrophysicist pulls a manila folder out of his attaché case. “You don’t want to be NASA administrator. Nixon is going to gut the place. Do you want to be remembered as the man who killed the space program?”

“You don’t mince words, do you Donald?”

“Look, I don’t for a moment think you are yesterday’s man, Frank. On the contrary, I think you are still very much a man of your time.” He opens the manila folder just far enough to check on what’s inside.

Borman is staring at the folder. “You here to talk to the president?”

“Good God, no,” says Menzel. “He doesn’t have the clearance to talk to me. I’m here to see you, Frank.”

When last they’d met, Menzel had revealed himself as the head of a shadowy group known as the Verus Foundation; keepers of the world’s greatest secrets, gathered together in one place for that moment in the future when they might be revealed. A group one step removed from official intelligence channels — outside of government, politics, and big business — solely dedicated to the preservation of one thing: the truth. Thus far, Menzel has given Borman no indication of when, if ever, Verus plans to reveal all.

For now, that dedication appears to be focused only upon keeping the truth hidden from public view. This is largely due to the power wielded by those within official military-industrial intelligence circles. These few are likewise privy to the secrets, but unwavering in their determination that they remain so permanently. Which, of course, is the very reason Verus is so important. Truman had reasoned that with secrets being compartmentalized into smaller and smaller parcels, each guarded jealously by a select few who never talk to one another, critical information could one day be lost forever. Or that it could never be fully understood in the proper context.

Verus is both memory and the context, jealously guarded by Menzel and his associates. While regarded with increasing degrees of antagonism by the military-industrial intelligence establishment, they remain autonomous and untouchable. They have the goods, as it were, on anybody who might wish them harm.

Before they blasted off to the Moon, Borman, Lovell, and Anders had been briefed on the possibility of seeing something strange on the far side. Colonel Wade Fallon, a crusty, laconic, and lethal plain-clothed defense intelligence man, had handed Borman a Minox spy camera and ordered him to photograph whatever they saw. They were the same rank, but Fallon had the drop on him by his clearance level. He clearly knew a lot more than he revealed to the astronauts.

Fallon also told them to keep their mouths shut, and especially to tell nobody at NASA, an organization renowned for its inability to keep anything secret. He warned that breaking silence on this would be career suicide. Emphasis placed knowingly on the suicide, suggesting career change might in fact be the least of their problems if they blabbed.

Borman had taken a photograph, as ordered. But upon his return to Earth, Borman had informed Fallon the camera was lost after splashdown, falling from his spacesuit as he exited the space capsule. Whether or not Fallon believed him hardly matters now. Given the circumstances, Fallon had no real motivation to act against them, just as long as they kept quiet about what they saw. He was one of those wheels-within-wheels guys, precisely the sort of unaccountable backroom type Borman had long despised. While not normally a good liar, Borman had been highly motivated when he met Fallon after the landing that day — because he’d already handed the spy camera over to Menzel. In so doing, a deal of sorts was struck with the scientist.

“There’s something I need you to do for me,” says Menzel.

Right about now, it’s starting to feel to Borman like he’s just bypassed one devil only to strike a bargain with another. He says, “Don’t know if you heard — Mr Nixon is sending me on a trip to Europe.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you can take your little junket. I know you’d hate to disobey an order from the ‘commander in chief’.”

Menzel says the words like he doesn’t believe the title is genuine. Like he couldn’t actually give a damn about the president’s orders. He’s staring at Borman now, waiting to see who’ll blink first. Finally, Borman says, “So you gonna tell me or not?”

“I’ve kept your secret as long as I dared. Powerful men are about to come looking for you,” says Menzel.

“You mean you sold me out.”

Menzel shakes his head. “The problem’s always been that they knew you’d see something out there. Which means you have two choices here: let me take you to them, or face them on your own.”

“There’s always door number three — that’s me ignoring the lot of you.”

“You don’t ignore these guys, Frank. Not if you know what’s good for you. Besides, I think you’ll want to hear what they have to say.”

3

March 1

From the bottom of the air stairs on his Eastern Airlines whisper jet, a Kombi courtesy vehicle takes Borman along the service roads skirting the runways of LAX. For a moment, as the jet lag takes hold, he is forced to remind himself he’s no longer in Europe, but back on home soil. Familiar territory, yet strange nonetheless. In 48 hours, he needs to be down at Cape Canaveral for the Apollo 9 launch, part of the official vice-presidential party.

Today promises to be something else entirely.

He’s at the Los Angeles Airways helicopter base within a few minutes. The chopper pilot is standing by for his arrival. Moments later, he’s airborne again. A fifteen-minute flight avoiding two hours of traffic and a whole lot of official scrutiny.

Borman is the only passenger. This is Menzel’s idea of security. Heck, if the man wants to spend lavish amounts of money to keep things compartmentalized, Borman isn’t about to argue the point. He gets the feeling that in the secret circles through which Donald Menzel passes, money is no object.

Hopefully they won’t just take this poor chopper pilot out the back and shoot him in the head when they’re done.

4

It must be nearly ten years since Borman last saw Bill ‘Trick’ Stamford. He’s the last person Borman expected to find waiting for him on the ground at Edwards, and about bottom of the list of people from those days he’d have hoped to see again.

He’d secretly been hoping they’d bring in Chuck Yeager for this one, even though he’s been rotated out to command the 405th Fighter Wing in the Philippines. Yeager would have been here with bells on, given half a chance. He probably doesn’t even know.

Borman has never liked Trick Stamford. The nickname said it all. He was a lousy test pilot, the sort who nearly gets other men killed by reckless endangerment, but always stays alive himself. Frank almost hates himself as he holds out his hand for Stamford to shake — who’s he trying to impress?

Stamford shakes it warmly, like they’re the best of friends. “Great to see you, Frank. I’ve got to say, wow man. I’m in awe of what you did. I mean it. Flying to the Moon… What was that like?”

“Greatest adventure of all time. And the toughest thing I’ve ever done. Left test pilot school for dead. We had some terrifying moments up there. Fair to say NASA gave me the greatest frights of my life.”

Stamford grins. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.”

“Other than the day I married the woman of my dreams.”

He and Stamford served together at Edwards under Yeager, but it’s about all they have in common. They’ve always been polar opposites. Borman set himself to rigid standards of self-discipline, devoting himself to God and country, and eventually to Susan. Stamford had only ever been out for a good time. He had a high level of natural ability as a pilot, but it was as if he didn’t really want to be in the Air Force. If not for that factor alone, he might have been good enough to be an astronaut. Instead, backed by his father’s money and influence, he treated his time in the Air Force like it was the ultimate joy ride. As it was, after a few close calls and a test plane that ended up a fiery wreck, the Air Force got him out of everybody’s way pretty damn quick. Borman had always assumed Trick simply went to work for daddy.

But he’s here all on his own today. And something about the man’s demeanor is different. There’s a calmness, a quiet sense of belief that was sadly lacking when last their paths had crossed. The old swagger is gone. In its place, an unspoken confidence of the sort that doesn’t seek approval and is thus untroubled by the opinions of others. Menzel has it too. Money alone doesn’t buy that degree of certainty. It comes from power.

Trick’s father, Garrick Stamford, the multi-millionaire aerospace investor, pulled all the strings to get his son into the test pilot program. He’s the sort of man who doesn’t accept no for an answer. His son, on the other hand, had devoted his energies almost entirely to hedonism during his time in the Air Force. A womanizer, a profligate wastrel, a borderline alcoholic — catastrophically self-destructive for mere mortals, yet somehow seen as tolerable, even endearing characteristics of the uber rich. In that way, too, Trick would have made the perfect astronaut.

Feeling his low opinion of the man tempered by what appears to be genuine admiration on Stamford’s part, Borman deigns to shoot the breeze a while about the past, an air of forgiveness that comes with the passing of years. They avoid the topic at hand, until the point where there is nothing but the obvious to talk about.

“What’s your role here, Trick?” Borman asks. Stamford just taps his nose and says nothing. “What about the test pilot school — they know anything about this?”

Stamford gazes across the tarmac toward the buildings a mile or so distant. “No. Those guys don’t have the clearance.”

A momentary silence descends; Borman resists the urge to fill the gap. But Trick is on a roll, excited to have a famous astronaut all to himself. He points a finger at the furious activity going on around them. “How’s about all this then? And it’s all down to you, Frank.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” says Borman.

“Well I’m sure. This is all about your little photograph.”

“We took a lot of photos out there. Which particular one took your fancy?”

Stamford laughs and points his finger like a gun. “Keeping it under your hat. That’s smart. Though it might have been smarter to tell Donald Menzel to go to hell when you had the chance.”

“What do you…”

“When he paid you a visit right after splashdown.”

Borman tries hard to remain expressionless. “What now?”

“Yes, we know all about that little ruse. If Menzel told you we wouldn’t find out, he was being disingenuous.”

“And who exactly is ‘we’?”

“Look Frank, I’m sorry Menzel made you the meat in the sandwich, I truly am. But you’re in now. There’s no going back.”

“You make it sound like the Mafia.”

“Christ man, we make the Mafia look like a bunch of juvenile delinquents.”

Borman sighs. He hates hearing the Lord’s name used in vain, but says nothing because Stamford would only laugh in his face. That might force him to do something he’ll later regret. Finally, he says, “Someone from NASA should be at this meeting.”

“You’re that someone.”

“NASA doesn’t know that.”

Stamford’s tone hardens. “And you’re not going to tell them. In case I haven’t made it clear, Donald Menzel is sailing way too close to the wind with his precious Verus Foundation. You’d do well to maintain a safe distance. Better still, pick another dance partner. For the purposes of self-preservation. Why do you think they sent me, partner?”

“Look, I’m here for one reason,” says Borman. “We’re about to send more men up there. I need to know it’s safe.”

“You’ve stirred the hornet’s nest.”

Borman thinks he knows where this is headed. “When I came back from the Moon, Susan — my wife — she let me in on a secret. Said she thought she’d never see me again. She was convinced I’d die out there.”

A short distance away, workmen are erecting a podium. Like roadies getting ready for an outdoor concert, except in this case nobody’s invited to the show.

Trick says, “But she still watched you leave.”

“Sometimes I worry all these years with me are driving her crazy.”

“I’d heard…”

Borman cuts him off with a glare. “What have you heard?”

Stamford holds his hands up defensively. “I’d heard it’s tough being married to a spaceman.”

Borman backs it off. “You married?”

“Me? Noo.”

“Susan’s not crazy. Not really,” Borman says. “She didn’t try to talk me out of it because she knew I wouldn’t listen. I was like a dog with a bone. We said we’d land men on the Moon, and by God that’s what we’re gonna do. Nobody on Earth can stop us — not you or your daddy, and definitely not Donald Menzel.”

5

March 2

At Douglas Airport in Charlotte NC, the Eastern Airlines hangars are far enough removed from the passenger terminal to be the perfect place for a large meeting of people who all value their anonymity.

Donald Menzel brings the black Continental to a stop to speak to the security guard at the gate on the airport perimeter. He doesn’t bother with credentials as he slowly winds down his tinted window. The guard approaches the car with a deferential expression on his face. He clearly recognizes the scientist on sight as a member of the party.

“Morning sir.”

Menzel says, “I have Colonel Borman with me. We’re here for the Eastern meeting.”

The guard nods and points toward a hangar. “It’s that one. Park anywhere you like. Refreshments are inside.”

A boom gate rises and Menzel hits the gas pedal.

“It just doesn’t seem right, meeting here like this,” says Borman.

“You’re an Eastern Airlines consultant.”

“That’s just it. Consultant, Donald. I don’t run the business. But we’re taking over an entire hangar.”

“Limited surveillance options. And perfect cover for you if you’re spotted by accident.”

“I sure hope Eastern isn’t too put out. I’d like to think this job of mine has a future.”

“Relax, Frank. They’ve been paid handsomely for their hangar. Nobody’s complaining.”

Menzel parks near a small hangar door. “Look, say as little as possible in here, OK? If someone asks a question, you reply with the briefest answer you can muster without sounding rude. Do not volunteer anything, you hear me?”

“You really don’t trust these folks, do you?”

Menzel sighs, like explaining will take forever. “You’ve got to understand this meeting is not about you. Not really. If I’ve given you the idea you’re central to this discussion, let me disavow you of that notion right now. We’ll be talking about you. But this is not about you. Unless someone addresses you directly, keep your mouth shut. Trust me on this. I have your back.”

Borman raises an eyebrow. “Yes, sir.”

“You’re one of us now.”

“I keep hearing that. It doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“You need to understand the trust of the men in this room is hard-won. It’s never given freely. You’re a national hero and you’re famous. But in here, all of that means nothing — if anything, it just makes these people nervous.”

Just inside the hangar door, coffee, donuts, sandwiches, and seven kinds of booze in crystal decanters are laid out in silver service. Nobody has touched any of it. Realizing he hasn’t eaten since dawn, Borman takes a look at the offerings. Menzel subtly nods his assent before walking away, leaving Borman feeling like he just failed the first test.

He chances a quick glance at the large conference table in the middle of the hangar, where most of those assembled are already seated. The space is poorly lit, which has to be on purpose. Despite the gloom, several people are wearing dark glasses. It’s mostly men, but there are one or two female faces. There are no place names, but there seems to be a pecking order. A seat at the table is all anyone wants, which is probably why no-one else is bothering with the food. He pours himself a coffee, making sure to keep an eye on where Menzel sits down, so he can take his place beside him without having to work his way around the table. He figures these people wouldn’t welcome that level of scrutiny.

Borman takes his cup and slowly moves toward the vacant seat beside Menzel. Nobody speaks to him. He recognizes Trick Stamford, who gives him a wink and then looks away to the older man on his right. Must be his father, Garrick.

They’re known as Bermuda — a seemingly innocuous name that could refer to summer holidays or business tax havens, but, according to Menzel, actually dates back to the group’s origins in the 1950s, the early days of the Cold War. The British-controlled island’s proximity to the US once made it the preferred destination for summits between American presidents and British prime ministers. Bermuda’s international power collective grew from the connections formed by men behind the scenes at these summits — the power behind the two thrones. But while their leaders come and go, Bermuda remains, all-knowing, all-seeing, wielding more influence than anyone in the regular corridors of power would dare imagine in the pursuit of freedom and free enterprise.

As years passed, its membership gradually became more heavily American, though their connections remain global. Many of Bermuda’s members have CIA ties, though Menzel says nobody at the CIA or the NSA has a high enough security clearance to be in this room. Both organizations regularly take orders from members of Bermuda, but the group itself is beyond scrutiny in that it doesn’t officially exist. It is the beating heart of the infamous military industrial complex that President Dwight Eisenhower warned about when he left office in 1961. Compartmentalized deep inside the nation’s security apparatus, members of Bermuda are, in effect, invisible to everyone outside their ranks. All arms of government are oblivious to their activities. Precisely the reason Truman and Eisenhower backed Verus as a way to keep an eye on them.

Bermuda has its tentacles firmly wrapped around America’s black budget, the billions of dollars devoted to top secret projects that have no congressional oversight. Work that includes back-engineering alien technology that has fallen into their hands to build weird and wonderful ships of their own, a defense force against any off-world menace that may one day rise against them.

But the bulk of their activity is much more down to earth and motivated by a force far easier to understand: self-interest. Decisions made by the people in this hangar are beyond the scrutiny of anyone outside their ranks. Bermuda is bound by one thing: what the American public and, to a lesser extent, the divergent nations of the world are willing to stomach. Bermuda can kill, it can wage war and its members can line their own pockets, but they can never draw overt attention to their actions. In matters of foreign policy and the development of weapons that will wind up in government procurement and testing, Bermuda is limited by plain old-fashioned public morality. As for their methods of development, the extent of technological advancement that makes it all possible, this is something else entirely. Such secrets are guarded closely in deep, dark underground vaults that likewise don’t exist.

That a man of Menzel’s talent and position is both afraid and distrustful of these people is already enough to have Borman on guard. But in joining them at their table, he finds his senses tingling big time. He’s vulnerable. His life is in their hands, yet his usefulness to them is limited.

Garrick Stamford is first to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen…” The table immediately falls silent. “It may not be protocol to speak out of turn, but I’d be remiss in my duty to you all if I didn’t make it clear I object in the strongest possible terms to this venture.”

“How so?” asks Borman, immediately feeling Menzel glare.

“Colonel Borman, you are a true-blue American hero, and good luck to you, son. But in this case, it makes our task a whole lot more complicated. Has it occurred to any of you that the cost of failure might not be one we are prepared to pay?”

6

Susan Borman stares at her husband like he’s insane.

“If it’s secret, that means it’s dangerous.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Come on, Frank, why else…?”

“It’s no big deal. A side trip. A little detour after the launch tomorrow. A day or two, tops.”

Susan says, “Lurton Scott’s having open house at her place for the launch. We’ll still be in full swing tomorrow night.” On every space flight, the mission commander’s wife throws open her doors. It’ll be the usual deal — the wives come together for the launch to eat, drink, and hug one another as their husbands ride rockets into the sky. Laughing so as not to cry. “I was hoping you could make it back here and join us.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Not this time.”

Her tone hardens. “Why’d you agree to this? Why can’t somebody else do it for a change? God, don’t tell me they’re sending you to Vietnam.”

He manages to stifle a laugh and shakes his head. “No. You can put that idea right out of your head.”

She looks hurt, maybe even betrayed. She can sense he’s holding something back. He had started off by giving her the impression he could say no, but she sees now his mind is made up. He hugs her close and says nothing for a time as she quietly sobs on his shoulder.

He takes her by the shoulders to look her in the eye. “I won’t be in danger. I can give you my hundred percent guarantee I’ll come home safe and sound. You hear me?” Even as he hears himself saying the words, he knows he’s in no position to guarantee anything of the sort, but it’s what she needs to hear.

She says, “I need you here. The boys need you. They feel like they don’t really know you anymore. Isn’t that what we talked about, you being here for your family? That starts now, Frank. Because one day soon, those boys will be gone and you’ll have missed your chance.”

He changes tack. “Who’s going tomorrow?”

“I thought I’d take Pat White with me. She’s been really down lately.”

“Oh. You sure that’s a good idea?” Pat and Susan had been closer than ever since Ed White died in the Apollo 1 fire. A drinking buddy is one thing, but Borman wonders if watching the Apollo 9 launch — all that smoke and flame — might only make matters worse for Pat.

Susan merely shrugs. She’s not thinking about Pat. “Why does it have to be you? Can’t you talk to Deke or Alan? How many times are you going to break my heart, Frank?”

Deke Slayton and Alan Shepard, the astronaut program’s go-to guys. Susan knows they never make their men do anything they don’t want to do. She’s right — he could go to them and refuse a mission and there would be no questions asked. Except for one thing. “Deke and Alan are out of the loop on this.” NASA knows nothing about it.

She frowns. “Now I’m really worried. You really can’t tell me?”

He wants to tell her more than anything. The words are on his lips, but he can’t bring himself to say them. Not because he’d be breaking the Espionage Act, but because he’s breaking his promise to her.

He shakes his head. “When I finally wore you down and you said you’d marry me…”

“I know… You said I could always trust you. And I do.”

“And I’m asking you to do that one more time.”

“Something’s worrying you. I can see it in your eyes, you’re like an open book. Let someone else do it. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“There is no-one else.”

“Is this about the Russians? Because I wouldn’t trust them, not one little bit.”

He says nothing.

“I knew it.”

He demurs. “It’s not the Russians, OK?”

She looks him in the eye, her expression hard and cold as sheet metal. “Whatever you say, Frank.”

7

March 4

It’s hotter than hell on the sedan’s red leather seats. Thank the Lord he managed to talk Menzel out of the black Lincoln. But white isn’t much better at deflecting the New Mexico heat, and the car’s air conditioning simply isn’t up to the job. They’re driving out of town toward the desert, like a couple of gangsters looking for somewhere to bury a body. It’s a half-hour drive. Time enough to talk.

Borman gets right to the point. “All this secrecy… how do you justify it? As a man of science?”

Menzel keeps his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. “You want to do this now?”

“Seems as good a time as any.”

Menzel pauses a moment. “I guess I came to realize there are things that are too important, things that are complicated enough without throwing the turmoil of public scrutiny into the mix.”

“That’s a slippery slope, don’t you think?”

“Say what you like about Hitler, but he kept those trains running.”

“That supposed to be funny?”

“Come on Frank, lighten up. Swear to God, Werner Von Braun has a better sense of humor than you. I’m just saying… democracy and public debate is messy. It’s slow and inefficient. Sometimes you need to get things done quickly and quietly.”

“Democracy is messy because it’s about preserving freedom. But here’s you saying Lady Liberty is just a façade, like anybody with half a brain should know that already.”

“Liberty is not a façade, OK? Jesus… The American people are free to do whatever the hell they want with their lives. Try doing that in Russia. Try it in Cuba, and Castro’s secret service will have you up against a wall. I’m saying the defense of liberty can’t always be out in the open. Sometimes the stakes are too complex for Mr Joe Average to understand. Trying to explain would only undermine the very thing we’re trying to protect. Because make no mistake, liberty is a state of mind.”

“My problem with that is, everyone’s living a lie.”

“You mean like believing Jesus died on the cross so God could forgive the sin of Adam and Eve eating from the tree of knowledge?”

“Go to hell, Donald.”

“I’m shocked, Frank. And you, a good Episcopalian.”

Borman simply stares out the window, sensing he’s already lost this argument.

“Look,” says Menzel, “setting aside the dubious doctrine of Original Sin, think about the Book of Genesis from an anthropological perspective. What’s the takeaway message? From the earliest days of modern humanity, here’s ‘God’ telling us there are things we’re better off not knowing.”

“I take it Bermuda assumes the role of God in this little parable of yours?”

“You might think so, but no.”

8

He steps forward, feeling like he is compelled to do so, although the reason for that compulsion seems to fall from his mind the moment he becomes aware of it. His immediate surroundings demand his complete attention.

He is back inside his spacesuit. Surprised, bewildered, disoriented. But it’s his suit all right, the one made by NASA especially for his flight to the moon. Every suit is bespoke, designed to fit one man perfectly.

He’s standing, but everything around him is black. He hears himself breathing heavily. He checks the oxygen indicator on his RCU. Less than thirty minutes of air. That’s not good. He tries to take another step forward, then feels the ground vanish beneath his feet. He’s floating, untethered, in complete darkness.

It’s a terrifying sensation. But after several long seconds, his feet touch back down on the ground. His eyes begin to adjust to the low light and he starts to see a dim glow on the ground some distance away. It’s still dark where he’s standing, but when he bends down he can make out the ground at his feet. He shuffles forward slightly and sees his boot kicking up dust as it scuffs the surface.

The surface of what?

The physical memory of weightlessness from his time in space aligns perfectly with the experience, yet it simply makes no sense. He can’t be doing this. Is he dreaming? If so, he’s never had a dream like it. It’s the strangest thing. He takes a bigger step and counts to twenty before his boots touch back down. Though he tries to stop himself, his momentum is too strong and he overbalances, toppling face down into the dust in ultra-slow motion. When he hits, his face plate crunches into something hard. Like concrete. Everything goes black. The impact is painful. It brings him to his senses. This is happening. He’s here, wherever the hell here is.

It looks and feels like the Moon. Except he can’t remember flying here. He must have blacked out. Which is weird, but then strange things can happen in space.

“Houston? I’m having some issues.”

No response. Course not — NASA aren’t the ones who sent him here.

“Hello?”

His life support could be malfunctioning. But hypoxia wouldn’t explain such total memory loss. Last thing he remembers is sitting in the car beside Menzel. It takes three days to fly to the Moon. Why can’t he remember any of it? There must be someone else out here with him… It’s not safe to go scuba diving alone, let alone fly to the Moon solo.

He plants his gloves and pushes himself slowly to his knees, incredulous but also excited. He runs his glove through the dust. It’s maybe two inches deep, but there is something solid underneath. He’s on some sort of rocky plateau. Beside him, to his left where the plateau falls away, he can see the dark rim of a massive crater stretching into the distance. Its far wall, a long way off, is starting to catch some light — that crater must be miles across. It rises and merges with the lunar horizon at a point that must be higher than where he’s sitting, because it’s the only area in light. It almost seems to glow against the pitch-black contrast of outer space. The crater appears to take up half the visible surface, and the horizon is oddly curved. It’s as if the Moon is way smaller than it should be. It’s got to be an optical illusion. The light is shifting. Lunar sunrise. Except there’s still no sign of the sun.

He’s circumnavigated the Moon, seen all its most dominant features — photographed most of them. He can recall nothing to explain this view. Feeling giddy and more than a little nauseous, Borman gazes slowly to his right and then his left, hoping to catch sight of his lunar module. The LM is nowhere visible. That’s OK. He must have walked far enough away that it’s out of his line of sight. Maybe that’s why he blacked out.

Over there to his right — an impossibly long, straight shadow line. It wasn’t there a moment ago. Sunlight is catching more of the surface now, throwing pools of twilight into strange and eerie patterns. But a much larger shadow surrounds him, painting its own distinct outline on the surface. This can only mean one thing. He shuffles around slowly in a circle, taking in the terrain, and discovers a massive object looming over him. He can’t actually see it, but its silhouette dissects the thin crescent-shaped outline appearing in the heavens directly above. A planet, invisible before now because the sun had been directly behind it.

The shock of seeing this knocks him so off balance that he falls to the ground again. As he stares at that red crescent, he can actually see more of its surface transitioning from night to day. He can see the curved line of sunrise as it quickly spreads across the planet’s surface. The planet is so close it fills nearly half the sky. As more of its surface becomes visible, the sun begins to appear, making him turn quickly away. But this immediately brings more light to the ground around him. For the first time, he sees the massive square-edged pillar of rock protruding from the dust.

Its surface is opaque, yet also partially translucent, like it’s responding to the sunlight with a phosphorescence. Glowing from within. It’s incredibly tall. Using his glove to shield his visor from the glare of the sun, he pulls his head back as far as his helmet will allow. He has to lean right back to see the top. It’s the size of a skyscraper. Like a finger pointing the way to the planet, though it’s not like anyone coming here would miss it.

“I think I need a little help here.”

Still no answer.

No line of sight to the LM. Meaning no signal booster for his suit radio. He’s effectively talking to himself. The Command Module should still be able to pick him up, unless it’s out of range on the far side. Or it could be the comms unit in his spacesuit. Maybe his fall knocked a connection loose. Unless whoever flew here with him doesn’t speak English. He can’t recall names or faces. Nothing makes sense. But as his eyes and his addled senses continue to stare at the undeniable before him, he finds he can only reach one inescapable conclusion.

The planet out there is Mars.

It’s no more than a few thousand miles away, almost close enough to touch. Meaning he must be on Phobos, the Martian moon. No wonder it’s tough to keep his feet on the ground — Phobos has virtually no gravity. If he kicks too far off the surface, he could simply float off into space. And Phobos orbits Mars in less than eight hours, which would explain the rapid sunrise.

“This is Borman, can anyone read me?”

Why won’t they answer?

Why can’t he remember anything?

Could it be the Russians? They’d certainly be the best-placed nation on Earth to run a major space mission in complete secrecy. But if Americans and Russians are cooperating, it would mean the entire space race is no more than a fabrication.

He tries to swallow his rising sense of panic.

Think.

Menzel. The desert. He remembers their car pulling off the road… at White Sands Missile Range. Was that the launch site? If so, the Air Force would have known about it.

He checks his air again — twenty minutes in the tank. It makes no sense to be out here with so little time, but it would appear there’s no going back. He’s here for a reason, even if he can’t remember what it is.

Without doubt, it has something to do with that giant rock towering over him. It’s hundreds of feet high… like some gigantic version of the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The Apollo 8 crew were special guests at the movie preview. Seems like a lifetime ago. Strangest film he’s ever seen. Boy oh boy, that Stanley Kubrick fella is weird. Did someone tell Kubrick this thing is out here?

Focus. Work the problem.

He gets up slowly, lest his next step turns him into a Martian moon in his own right. He inches forward like he’s on tiptoes.

What else would cause him to black out? Medication? Did someone leave him in this state deliberately? Maybe the Russians made it a condition of their cooperation. They’d be worried he might reveal their secrets to NASA. Damn right he’d reveal their secrets, the bastards. Mars. Neil and Buzz would have kittens. But how? Have the Russians mastered cryosleep? It could explain why he remembers nothing.

How long has he been away from home? It must take months to fly this far into space. What have they told Susan? She’ll have written him off for dead by now.

The wall of the monolith facing him remains deep in shadow, but even from here he can see its surface is incredibly smooth. Could be stone. Or metal. Or some strange mineral. But way too smooth to be a natural feature. Somebody put it here.

He takes a few more steps, until a light flickering above him stops him in his tracks. A bolt of lightning strikes the monolith about halfway up. There is no sound, but he feels a tremor vibrate the ground beneath his feet. A blackness almost like charring starts to spread across the monolith from the lightning’s point of impact, then fades slowly away like it’s absorbed into the surface. It’s as if the structure itself is fluid.

Lightning can’t travel in space. It needs ionized particles to carry the electrical charge across a distance. Does Phobos have some semblance of atmosphere? He doesn’t want to waste time thinking about it, and he definitely doesn’t want another bolt to strike him down where he stands. He begins to move as quickly as he can toward the base of the structure.

His movement is painfully slow, and he’s acutely aware of his limited air supply. He’s still a good fifty feet from the base of the monolith. It’s not a huge distance, but at the rate he’s moving it will take too long to get there. He has to take a chance.

Crouching as far as the suit will allow, he launches himself, aiming for lateral movement more than vertical. He aims too low on his first attempt and merely ends up sprawled in the lunar dust again. He gets up and tries again, aiming slightly higher. This time he avoids the ground but starts to feel himself gaining a lot more altitude than he’d like. As he closes in on the monolith, he moves his arms forward to take the impact. But the sudden movement sends him into a spin.

His boots are the first thing that hits the surface. He bends his knees to absorb as much of the impact as possible, hoping to avoid simply bouncing off into space. To his enormous surprise and relief, his feet remain fixed on the face of the monolith.

It has its own gravity field.

He catches his breath, relieved by this unexpected turn of good luck, and bends down to touch the surface beneath his boots. It’s like polished metal. He tries lifting his boots one by one. Careful to make sure one foot remains in contact with the surface, Borman takes a step forward. In this way, he finds he can move much more rapidly. He walks to the side, and then tries to carefully step from one face to the next. But it proves too tricky to get his boot around 90 degrees and flat to the next face, without losing his footing on the other face. He doesn’t dare risk it. He edges back onto the dark face and walks himself quickly down to ground level. The sensation is truly strange — his entire frame of reference is tilted at a right angle in relation to Phobos. The comforting and familiar sense of gravity leaves him with the sensation that the monolith is the solid structure here, and Phobos just a pile of dust gathered around it.

He’s about ten feet from the surface when the face of the monolith starts to shimmer directly beneath him. Solid turns to liquid. As if taking a leap into a lake, he finds himself sinking into the surface. Before he even has time to reach out for something to hold onto, he is completely immersed. As his helmet passes beneath the surface, he sees tendrils of green light all around him, like roots spreading in all directions. Like it’s alive.

The structure is hollow, the wall that swallows him no more than one or two feet thick. He passes through it in less than a second to find himself inside what seems to be a large translucent chamber. The momentum of his “fall” carries him some fifty or sixty feet, all the way to the far side of the monolith. Once more his feet meet firmly on its surface, except now on the inside. In here, the walls of the structure are like windows, giving him a perfect view of the crater. Where the monolith and the moon intersect, he sees a black plinth rising from the floor, like a model of the larger structure. He turns around and finds himself staring directly at the immensity of Mars itself, as if he might simply walk all the way down to the planet’s surface.

What is this place?

He turns and starts to walk back toward the floor of the chamber, his sense of up and down now utterly confused. Embedded in the chamber’s base are pictograms reminiscent of Egyptian hieroglyphs. There is a logic to the images and he feels he might make sense of them if he had more time. He steps off the wall and onto the floor. To his surprise, the base of the chamber, like the moon itself, has almost no gravity. Like it’s inside the monolith but not a part of it.

He starts to shuffle his way closer to the plinth. When he is no more than a few steps away, a three-dimensional movie begins to play all around him. A blue-green planet the size of a truck wheel floats before him, turning slowly, no more than an arm’s length away. He reaches out and his glove passes straight through it. He sees oceans, clouds and polar ice caps. It could almost be Earth, except he knows it’s not. The land masses are unrecognizable. Something amazing and terrible is happening to the planet — asteroids of increasing size begin crashing down upon its surface.

Some of the projectiles burn up in its atmosphere, but many make it all the way to the surface. Their impacts cause increasingly catastrophic levels of destruction. Finally, there is an explosion terrible enough to consume the planet’s atmosphere and it’s like the air itself is on fire. Dark clouds surround the surface and lightning crackles through the clouds, until another massive explosion tears the atmosphere apart. Clouds of fiery gas tear away into space like layers from an onion. The planet’s surface is fractured by violent seismic upheavals of such a magnitude it would surely destroy anything alive on the surface.

When the smoke finally clears, all that is left is a red world of dust. The planet Mars as it is now known to everyone on Earth, a deadly world of rock and ash newly freed from its outer living shell.

The image dissolves, leaving Borman alone in the room. Now the plinth is alive. The focal point in the chamber, its black surface still solid, is a TV screen of rippling quicksilver. He moves toward it and notices what looks like a touch pad on top of it, tilted up at him like an invitation. On the top of the touchpad is an indentation in the shape of a human hand. He tries to get a glove to it, but it’s just out of easy reach. He feels like a child grasping reaching for a sweet jar. Finally, he jumps for it, but only succeeds in throwing himself into open freefall above the plinth. He floats all the way to the roof of the chamber.

Reaching out with his glove, Borman becomes fixed in place by the monolith’s gravity. There he finds himself in the curious position of hanging above the floor. Ignoring the compelling sensation that letting go will mean falling to his death, he pushes himself back toward the podium and spreads his legs as wide as his suit will allow in an effort to hook his boots around the top. It’s not pretty, but it does the job. He reaches down and places his glove on the touchpad.

Everything around him changes.

9

Light floods the chamber. The ground beneath Borman shakes as if it’s undergoing some sort of massive seismic disturbance. He’s thrown into the air as a blinding white light surrounds him. It’s like a chunk of the sun has somehow made its way inside the room. It’s painfully bright. He’s forced to shut his eyes. The light is everywhere and it’s impossible to look away.

A noise accompanies the light. The crackle of electric static, lightning in a tube amplified to the point of deafening loudness. The sound is only momentary, but the blinding light persists and he is gripped by vertigo. He feels himself drift down to the chamber’s stony floor, where he spreads out his arms, dizzied by the sensory assault.

He keeps his eyes clamped shut until he sees through closed eyelids that the light is starting to fade. When he finally opens them, the chamber is different. Its walls are now transparent. Through them he sees a glorious vista of an entirely new planet outside. The Red Planet is gone. In its place, a blue green planet just like Earth. The planet in the film that had just played. Is this Mars as it used to be? Has he travelled back in time?

He feels heavier. There is gravity on the floor of the chamber, where a moment ago there was none. Not strong, but noticeable nonetheless. He rises to his feet. Remembering the quake and infused by a sudden sense of fear, he rushes to the edge of the room to check the surface of Phobos. As close as Phobos was to the red Mars, this new planet is closer still. Its much denser atmosphere reaches further out into space, such that its outer layer is now right at his feet, touching the monolith.

Phobos itself is starting to disintegrate before his eyes. Directly below him, a massive section of the moon has fallen away, skipping through the atmosphere like a vast pebble dancing across a pond. The Martian moon is breaking apart, and doing so with alarming speed.

“Your re-entry vehicle awaits.” A woman’s voice, loud and clear in his spacesuit comms unit. Almost like she’s standing beside him. Instinctively, he looks around, but there is nobody in here with him.

“Who is that? Come in? This is Colonel Frank Borman… Can you hear me?”

No response. Wherever that voice had come from, it wasn’t Earth. Over that distance, radio transmissions take anywhere between fifteen to thirty minutes. Whoever is speaking to him seems aware of his circumstances. There’s only one other alternative; someone much closer is monitoring his progress.

He walks along the perimeter of the chamber, trying to take in as much of his surroundings as possible. At the second internal wall of the monolith, he finds himself facing the area outside where he stood minutes earlier. Here he sees a part of the moon still holding together, clinging to the underside of what now looks to be a long black gantry that extends away perpendicular to the monolith.

This is the hard structure he had felt when his head hit the ground. But as he watches, this large fragment of the moon also explodes. A million meteors shoot off in many directions at once, but somehow all the debris thrown spaceward quickly arcs back down toward the planet — apparently its gravity is impossible to resist. The fragments immediately start burning long fiery ribbons across the Martian atmosphere.

The monolith is all that remains now. It has become a space station in an unstable orbit, already being rapidly decayed by the planet’s atmosphere. The floor beneath him shifts. His view changes as the monolith turns away from the planet’s surface toward outer space. The wall behind him is now taking the full force of the atmospheric friction. Within moments, that part of the structure is glowing red from the enormous heat generated by its contact with the outer atmosphere.

He turns back around to move closer to the gantry, which now points out into space, away from the furnace behind him. But now he notices something else out there. He blinks to make sure he’s not imagining it. It’s still there when he opens his eyes.

“Is that what I think it is?” The only response he hears is the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears as he tries to control his breathing.

Tethered to the end of the gantry is an Apollo Command Service Module. It couldn’t have been there before; the gantry had been embedded in the surface of Phobos. Impossible or otherwise, at this point it would appear to be his only hope of staying alive.

The floor beneath him jumps. Another tremor. Atmospheric friction, or the last fragments of the moon breaking away. He checks his air again. About fifteen minutes left. Using the wall of the monolith to steady himself, he takes a few more steps so the gantry is right outside.

“I need to get out of here.” He has no idea who he’s talking to and hopes like crazy he’s not just whistling in the wind. That someone or something is providing him with a means of escape. A door-sized section of the monolith’s translucent wall slides open, allowing him to exit.

He places a boot half outside the chamber, making sure to keep it firmly in place as he slowly swings the other leg out to meet it. He can still feel some force beneath his boots pulling him down. He has no idea whether this is gravity or some strange electro-magnetism, and at that moment he couldn’t care less. All he knows is it feels strong enough to hold him steady while he makes his way along the space platform toward the CSM. He steps through the open door and, moving slowly and carefully, with one foot planted at all times, he begins the walk to the end of the gantry.

It looks to be a distance of about 200 yards.

10

How is he still alive? And what on God’s blue-green Earth is that CSM doing out here? It’s an orbital vehicle. It’s simply not designed to touch down on the lunar surface. None of it makes sense, but he doesn’t have time to waste on trying to reason it out.

He keeps placing one foot in front of the other, moving closer to the impossible. Only a precisely executed sequence of events in the next few minutes will keep him alive — all of it predicated on his blind acceptance of the reality now confronting him.

It feels like it takes an eternity to reach the end of the platform, although in truth it’s more like five minutes. He knows this because his RCU tells him he has just under ten minutes of air remaining. Every passing second brings him closer to the agonizing panic of asphyxia. The platform beneath his feet is vibrating with the friction of the monolith bouncing across the planet’s outer atmosphere.

The CSM is identical to the ship he flew with Anders and Lovell. The gleaming metal surface of the conical command module is so highly polished, he can see his own reflection staring back at him. He’s examined the exterior of this beautiful flying machine countless times, but never before from the vacuum of space. It feels reassuring and terrifying at the same time. The spacecraft is not actually on the lunar surface at all. It’s clamped to the end of the gantry by its nose probe, the connector designed to dock with a Lunar Module. In theory, it should be easy enough to detach and fly to safety.

He’s never performed a maneuver like that in space — only in a simulator. Apollo 8 had no LM. They flew to the Moon without one. But he’s pretty sure he can wing it.

The capsule hatch hangs open as if waiting for him to enter, but it’s just out of easy reach. He’ll have to leap off the gantry to get to it. Meaning he gets one shot. If he fails to get a firm hold of the hatch, he’ll just bounce off into space — a distinct possibility in a spacesuit that renders him about as agile as the Michelin man.

But he’s not going to die wondering. He launches himself from the platform to the hatch, madly scrambling for a handhold. He clamps one glove inside the internal door mechanism to steady himself while reaching inside the cabin with the other. He keeps hold of the hatch, but misses the mark with his other hand. For an awful moment, he finds himself hanging in space, terrified the sudden reverse in his momentum from his impact will bounce him loose. But he maintains his grip. Slowly, one leg at a time, he works his way inside the cabin.

He pulls the hatch closed and locks it down, sealing himself inside an airless metal box. Everything looks exactly as he remembers it. He flips a switch to fill the cabin with air, then checks his RCS. Five minutes of air left. He can already feel the suit’s air supply beginning to thin. He’s starting to labor more to take a breath. A few more minutes, and he’ll be in the hypoxia zone. The hiss of air gradually filling the cabin is music to his ears. He waits as long as he can before daring to remove his helmet, swallowing the feeling that it’s an act of suicide.

The helmet clicks loose and he hears the air from his suit rush through the opening as the pressure equalizes. The cabin air is thin but breathable, and getting denser by the second. Thank God.

He unstraps the PLSS life support unit from his back, unplugs it from his suit and jams it behind the row of seats. Then he straps himself into the central seat to maximize his reach for the controls. Normally, they are operated by two people.

Somehow, the systems are already switched on. The ship’s DSKY computer interface is blinking. An impossible thought occurs to him. He punches a command into the guidance computer. It gives him a Mission Elapsed Time readout of 93 minutes.

That can’t be right. Flight time from Earth to Mars would be measured in months, not minutes. Lord knows where this so-called mission began, but he’s pretty damn sure now he wasn’t on board this ship for liftoff. Certainly not for a NASA-style liftoff. Too noisy. Too easily detectable. That’s not how Bermuda goes about its business.

Did the Russians piggyback the CSM to Mars on one of their ships? Even assuming that’s the case, how did the CSM come with him through the monolith’s transportation gateway?

He decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. First things first — he flicks the switch to decouple the probe from the platform. As he does, the orbiting platform shakes violently, pushing against the CSM and propelling it into space. It’s a terrifying jolt, but it buys him a few minutes to work out his next move. Even detached from the gantry, he can feel the outer atmosphere buffeting the ship. That is way too close for comfort. He needs more time.

He also needs to pick a destination. A landing on the planet below being the most obvious choice. Yet there’s no way he can simply throw himself into a re-entry sequence on a wing and a prayer. If he doesn’t nail the re-entry corridor precisely, he’ll either burn up or bounce straight off the outer atmosphere. Meaning he has to fire up the main SPS engine to push the ship into a higher orbit. That way he’ll have time to either work out a re-entry vector… Or plot a flight path back to Earth, assuming that really is Mars down there.

Navigation and guidance are going to prove an interesting challenge. Jim Lovell had been navigator on Apollo 8. Borman’s working of the Apollo Guidance Computer had always been in close coordination with Lovell. His only hope now is that somehow this AGC is programmed to get him safely down to the surface. Logic tells him that’s impossible, but then again, all normal parameters of logic vanished a while back. Logic says the planet in the window should be red, not blue.

Logic tells him he shouldn’t be here at all.

He checks the computer program counter. It tells him he’s in the initial stages of the EI phase… Apollo-speak for entry interface — the re-entry sequence. But when he sees what the computer tells him to do next, it makes him smile. Apparently somebody is looking out for him. The program says the first stage of the EI is a burn of the SPS engine to position the capsule in an elliptical orbit. It’s precisely the move he would be making even if he had no computer to guide him. A textbook Apollo EI sequence.

And the computer knows exactly what’s required.

Someone’s been thinking ahead. The AGC has been programmed to get him out of an unstable Martian orbit. He checks the program to ensure the computer program will fire the SPS without his help. An alarm sounds, telling him the burn needs to be executed in thirty seconds. The computer needs his confirmation to carry it out. He quickly hits the command to execute, and scrambles to strap himself into a chair. His only hope is that the ship’s inertial measurement unit will accurately tell the computer the spacecraft’s speed, altitude, and horizontal attitude. He only gets one go at this.

The first Apollo missions were unmanned. The computer got them safely through re-entry. They were closely monitored and controlled from the ground, but onboard navigational systems had functioned within acceptable tolerances. Those same onboard systems are now his lifeline. He’ll be flying on auto-pilot, just like they do it in Russia. He can’t help smiling at the irony. He checks again. The DSKY interface confirms the program is running. No failure warning flash. A moment later, he feels a bump as RCS thrusters fire to readjust the module’s attitude to point the ship’s nose away from Mars. He catches a glimpse of blue flashing past the window as the module moves into a better alignment for re-entry. The SPS is just point and fire — you need to aim it right before lighting the candle.

Then the SPS fires up and the CSM hits maximum acceleration, pushing him deep into his seat. The burn continues for about ninety seconds, carrying him well clear of the launch platform and the remains of the Martian moon. The AGC tells him he’s now orbiting Mars at a speed of 25,969 feet per second. It’s way slower than Apollo 8’s EI approach speed of 36,303f/s, but that’s OK — on 8 they were coming home from the Moon.  And in terms of his chances of landing on Mars safely, slower is probably much better.

Without even bothering to give it serious consideration, he dismisses the notion of heading for Earth. He would run out of fuel, food, and water long before making the distance, and that is assuming the Earth he left is even out there. That planet he’s orbiting may not be Mars. He could be somewhere else entirely. Landing is his only realistic survival option.

They sent him here for a reason. No going back now.

He orbits the planet three times while he does his best to check and double check the computer’s calculations for the best EI corridor. When he thinks he has the numbers straight, he goes around two more times, peering out the window to get a look at what’s on the ground. Each time he passes over the Phobos platform, it seems to be glowing brighter, painting a long red streak across the Martian sky. Can’t be long before it burns up. And he won’t want to have his chutes opening anywhere near that fiery catastrophe. He scans the Martian surface for the best place to come down as far as possible away from the remains of the moon. After the adrenalin rush of his time on Phobos, it feels comforting to be in much more familiar surroundings, even if the world below is entirely foreign. Will the air be breathable? He’ll find out soon. He picks a landing place and punches the EI sequence into the computer. Flips the CSM around so he’s flying backwards, then types in the command telling the computer to fire up the SPS for the re-entry burn. Heart in his mouth, he hits the button to execute.

What happens next catches him completely by surprise.

Within seconds of the SPS burn finishing, the command module detaches from the service module. But whether it’s a glitch or part of the program, he has no time to check. Seeing the gamma angle now set at -1 degree, he fires RCS thrusters manually to lift the nose of the capsule. Now the heat shield is hitting the air at the right angle to keep the ship from burning up. He rotates laterally one way and then the other to normalize the lift; the Entry Monitoring System tells him he’s within normal tolerances. He starts to see the air on fire as flames engulf the capsule’s portals. He checks the G-forces readout and watches it hit six gees before the needle starts to fall away. It’s a lower G-force peak than he hit on Earth, but of course he has no way of knowing what sort of atmosphere he’s flying into.

The capsule remains intact through re-entry and the computer alarm sounds when the time comes to fire the main chutes. He waits, counting to ten to be sure. Opening too early would be catastrophic. He takes a deep breath and hits the switch.

He sighs as he watches the chutes open through the portal above his head. For several minutes, all is quiet as he slowly falls to the surface. It occurs to him he has no real idea of where he’s coming down, other than the fact that it’s land and thus bound to be a rough touchdown. The command pod is designed to land on water, but without a US Navy retrieval team that is simply not an option.

It’s a bone-jarringly rough landing. He bashes his head on the side of his flight chair as the capsule starts crashing through a thick forest canopy. When he’s sure he’s stopped, he waits a few more moments before daring to unstrap from his flight chair.

He shifts slightly in order to reach back for the handle to open the hatch. As he does, he feels the capsule moving under him, instantly bringing back that familiar seasick feeling from the last time he was in this position. They were locked inside Apollo 8 for almost an hour after splashdown — he’d been sick as a dog. No water this time, but he obviously hasn’t made it to the ground yet either. The capsule must be hanging in the treetops by its chutes.

He can’t stay in here for long. Who knows how long those chutes will hold. He reaches for the hatch again, hesitating for a fraction of a second to ponder the possibility that the air outside is toxic. Does he want to die in a box or die as the first man on Mars?

Borman grabs the handle and gives it a sharp yank. It flies open with a hiss from the pressurized piston, designed to hold it open for emergency exit — a design imperative from the fatal Apollo 1 fire. Realizing he’s holding his breath, he opens his mouth and feels his diaphragm move as his lungs fill with Martian air. It’s moist, cool… and seemingly fit for consumption. He has no idea how long it would take a toxic atmosphere to choke a human, but his guess is it would happen immediately in most cases. On Venus, the atmosphere is carbon dioxide and sulfuric acid: dense enough to crush you and hot enough to melt lead.

Borman takes in another lungful, breathing deeper this time. The air is fresh. Well oxygenated. A strange sensation hits him. The air prompts an emotional reaction. Relief, obviously, but there is something deeper than that — a sense of homecoming, as if he’s returning to a place he’s been before. It’s not conscious memory, more like an instinct. The sensation isn’t the least unpleasant, but he has no idea what to make of it. The smell of the woods is incredibly aromatic, layered with perfumes and deep spice. It smells good enough to eat.

He swings himself up and peers out the hatch. The capsule starts swinging madly through the air. When he looks down, he sees he’s still a good hundred feet above the ground.

11

He spends the next five minutes surveying his options, before deciding he’ll have to make a leap into the limbs of the tree. The only other option is to sit and wait for the chutes to tear, which may not even happen. But even in Martian gravity, a hundred-foot fall could be enough to kill him.

Only trouble is, the nearest large tree branch is about twenty feet away, and he’s not at all confident he’ll make it that far.

He starts to pull himself out of his spacesuit, wishing he’d had the foresight to do it while he was still in zero gravity. It’s not an easy thing to do in the confines of the capsule. Every sharp movement adds to its pendulum swing, makes him wonder if he’s only hastening the tearing of those chutes. But he has no chance of tree climbing if he keeps it on.

Finally, he manages to strip himself down to his LCG, the space long johns that have cooling pipes running through them. Underneath the LCG, he is wearing shorts and a T-shirt. But he has no shoes. His boots are part of the spacesuit. Mankind’s first step on Mars will be barefoot.

There’s only one way he’ll get himself anywhere close to the nearest tree branch that’s big enough to hold him. He begins to rock the capsule back and forth in an effort to swing close enough to make a leap. He bumps his head on the hatchway more than once, but eventually finds a rhythm and starts to swing further and further. But when he tries to position himself for the leap, he overbalances and nearly falls out. Thankfully the hatch handle is large enough for him to grab at, but his movement throws the capsule into a wild spin. Hanging half out the capsule, he clings to the hatch for dear life. He has to wait for the chaotic swinging to diminish to the point where he is able to climb back inside, and start the process all over again.

Toes still tingling from adrenal shock, he tries smaller movements to get the ship rocking. He leans forward and back continuously. Slowly, the ship starts to move, but it’s not enough to get anywhere close to the tree branch. He scans the cabin for something to use as a lever. But long metal poles aren’t something North American Aviation factored into their design of the Apollo capsule.

Maybe if he had a lunar lander…

Borman shakes his head in disbelief. Part of him wonders if he’s hallucinating; still on Phobos, but away with the fairies because his air is running out.

The sky above him darkens. He glances up to see the monolith still cutting its way through the upper atmosphere like a meteor, burning a long red streak across the cloudless aqua blue sky.

It looks pretty damn real.

He starts rocking more violently back and forth, feeling the momentum and building on it. He has more success this time. It reminds him of being a kid on the swings, moving back and forth to build up speed and height.

He keeps going. He isn’t going to make it all the way to the branch, but he’ll get close enough. He just needs to find a way to project himself out of the capsule, without getting his feet stuck on exit. Still rocking, he gets his feet firmly in place and then baulks twice, unable to bring himself to make the leap. Third time’s the charm.

It’s a clumsy leap, as he feared it would be. He doesn’t quite reach the branch, but he gets close enough to wrap his arms around it. He feels his feet dangling in the air, an impossible drop below him. He pulls himself onto the branch, throwing a leg over and hugging it like a long-lost loved one.

He stays there for a full five minutes, catching his breath and watching the capsule’s swing slowly diminish as he tries to figure out what to do next. He’s facing away from the trunk of the tree. He needs to be near the trunk. He sits up on the branch, slowly swings himself around the other way and worms his way in.

For the next few minutes he makes good progress, descending to about thirty feet off the ground, where the branches are a lot further apart. Too far for him to use the branches like a ladder. His next descent will be a jump. He hangs himself down as far as possible and then lets go. His feet hit the branch below, but he immediately feels it giving way under his weight. He overbalances and plunges forward into the air.

The fall feels strange. It’s slow. Martian gravity is about a third as strong as the Earth’s. He comes to ground with a relatively light impact, but with no control over where he lands. He ends up hitting a fallen log with one foot and instantly feels his ankle snap. His leg crumples as he tries to shift his weight off the broken bone and he falls in a heap to the forest floor.

12

This is not as it was meant to be. The five Outliers touch hands in unified bewilderment and fascination as they observe the unfolding events. This is perplexing, because they don’t know what it all means. The unknown is simply something they have never before experienced. It’s both exciting and terrifying. From this moment on, nothing is assured, nothing will be as was expected.

Their lives are predicated on knowing, on predicting the future based on the certainty of the past and the present. This is not magic or supernatural ability; it is total command of the elements. It has given meaning and comfort to their lives. Enabled them to feel safe and assured of all that has come before and all that shall come to pass.

Until this moment.

The five have known one another for a very long time. They are intimately acquainted. Even now, in this moment of great uncertainty, they know without speaking what they must do next.

He does not yet see them, though they stand but a short distance away. This is according to their wishes. He is small, this man from Earth. This much, at least, was proclaimed in the Story of Arrival. He will look up to them and, in so doing, see them as greater than they really are. This will be their advantage.

He will find them strange and intriguing, just as they look upon his appearance with curiosity and a certain degree of sympathy. So many weaknesses. So many contradictions. Head so small and round. Mind so closed to possibility.

But this too will be fit for their purpose.

Romsoc, Edvyrl and Parxotic tilt their heads as one to the right.

He behaves strangely, Parxotic thinks.

Edvyrl agrees. He appears confused. Possibly even demented.

Romsoc tilts his head back in the other direction. It is pain you see. His leg is broken.

Parxotic sees this now. The Arrival says nothing of this… And the timing of events cannot be ignored.

Holtz and Skioth — the elders among them — simply exchange a knowing glance. Their mental communion is silent to the other three, for it is born from the knowing of the true union, a deeper Martian sensibility that takes hundreds of years to master. It transcends even the expression of thought. In this way, the two are as extensions of one another, each incorporating the other’s mind and body into their own. They are two faces of the same polished stone. They agree upon a course of action that must, by its nature, unbind them in extremis.

We must do what we came here to do, Holtz and Skioth finally declare.

Holtz stares hard at the visitor. He believes he is the first.

Skioth concurs. We must not allow matters to run further off course by failing to act.

When Parxotic understands what they have in mind, she moves to object. Skioth raises his hand in acknowledgement and reassurance. But the emergence of disquiet in their ranks at the onset of this most solemn occasion is itself a concerning development. A dark omen of catastrophic importance.

Holtz sums it up perfectly. The importance of this moment cannot be underestimated. Yet the meaning remains far from clear. This we must determine for ourselves. That task falls upon us. There are no others to do it.

Skioth closes his eyes for a final moment of communion. If you deign it, let it be so.

Holtz nods solemnly.

She speaks aloud now, as if in so doing she formalizes her pronouncement. “We must assume our guest is hostile.”

13

Borman sits himself up and examines his broken ankle. His foot seems to be locked at a strange angle and the ankle is already purple, swollen and hurting like hell.

He promised Susan. Gave her his personal guarantee. Now he’ll never see her or his boys again. This will kill her. Menzel will never tell her the truth. She’ll disappear into a bottle and never come out.

But worse than all of that, he’s failed before he’s even really started. He can’t move with his foot like this. It’ll be weeks before it’s strong enough to walk on. He’ll almost certainly be dead long before then. Waves of emotion sweep over him in great tidal surges. He leans back and stares up at the sky for what seems like ages, trying to calm himself down and figure out what to do next.

There’s no point in simply giving up. He must at least try to find water. Strangely, he doesn’t feel tired. After a prolonged spacewalk followed immediately by the stress of that makeshift re-entry, he should be exhausted. But he’s not. The Martian air almost seems to have a certain rejuvenating capacity to it.

He takes a deep breath and quietly tells himself all is not yet lost. Quietly, he locks the fear and doubt down in that mental vault, where he has trained himself to store everything that is not mission-critical. He wills himself into the same state of almost sociopathic single-mindedness that got him to the Moon.

He slowly struggles to stand up, putting all his weight on his one good foot. The good news is his muscles feel remarkably strong and reactive in the lighter gravity of Mars. Here he is only about a third of his weight on Earth. He’ll need to come up with a walking stick or some makeshift crutches. He scans his immediate surroundings, but there’s nothing suitable. There is forest all around him. The forest floor is in deep shadow, which suits him fine. He has no way of knowing what’s out there. If there is intelligent life of any type (and surely there must be), his arrival will not be lost on them. Based on his brief time on Phobos, he feels certain he’s not alone. The forest is further evidence of that. The Mars he knows is a barren, lifeless rock.

He decides to hop a few steps, finding he can move forward about six feet with a single hop. His footfall is light, which reduces the jarring on his broken ankle. In a moment of madness, he chances stepping on his bad foot. This is a mistake. The pain shoots up his leg and he crumples to the ground again. He takes a few moments to catch his breath and wait for the agonizing pulse in his ankle to subside.

He hears strange noises in the distance. Could they be birds? He sits up and spots a fallen tree branch, forked at one end and robust enough to act as a walking stick. Using it to lever himself upright, he experiments with using the branch as a crutch and quickly finds it works fine. He starts to slowly make his way through the forest, past some of the most incredible trees he’s ever seen. They must be ancient because they are breathtakingly tall.

He whistles in the hope of catching a response. It echoes back to him from a gully in distant hills. He sets off in that direction.

“You’re going the wrong way.” A woman’s voice behind him stops him in his tracks. Is it the same woman? He can’t be sure. Surprised, he forgets he’s using a crutch and tries once again to stand on his broken foot. Instead, he falls to the ground again.

“Ow. God damn it.” Ordinarily, not the words he’d have chosen to greet someone from another planet.

She’s tall and thin. Her eyes are big and wide, her head elongated. She seems to have no ears — at least, none that he can see. She looks humanoid, but is most definitely not human. She wears no shoes, which only serves to draw attention to the strangest part of her anatomy — her feet. They are massive and V-shaped. Ten toes split five aside on each branch of the V. She must be a good runner. They also look like the perfect feet for tree climbing. At first glance she looks naked, but he realizes she is actually garbed in a skin-tight garment that itself is the purplish color of her skin.

“You missed your mark,” she says.

He blinks, half wondering if she’s a hallucination. “I’m sorry?”

She looks young. There is a child-like wonder in her green eyes. But the tone of her voice suggests she is either knowledgeable beyond her years, or much older than she looks. Her body seems out of proportion. Her long and skinny arms and legs without doubt a product of the planet’s lower gravity. A smaller muscle mass must function more efficiently.

She raises a small elfin hand and beckons him to follow. “I’ll show you.” She starts to walk away.

“Um, I’ve got a bit of problem. With my foot.”

She turns, walks back to him, and leans down to peer at his ankle. Which is when he sees two holes set aerodynamically into the top of her skull. Those must be ears. “There’s nothing wrong with your foot,” she says.

“It’s broken.”

“Stand up,” she demands.

He looks down at his leg, realizing at that moment it’s no longer hurting him. “What did you do?” He examines the area of the break more closely. The redness and the swelling have disappeared.

“You need to walk.”

Not yet willing to chance another agonizing collapse, he uses his crutch to climb back on his good leg. Slowly and gingerly he puts his broken foot on the ground and starts to gradually put weight on it, clinging to his crutch and waiting for the pain. There is none. He puts his full weight on it. Still nothing.

“How did you do that?” Somehow, she has healed a broken bone in a matter of seconds. She says nothing, simply stands facing the other way, waiting for him to join her. He walks over to her.

His foot feels perfectly normal. In fact, it’s like he can barely even remember it was ever broken — all signs of the trauma are simply gone. He finds he’s able to take remarkably large steps. He can walk — and run — faster than he’s ever done before. It’s fun. Without even realizing he’s doing it, he starts to laugh in sheer relief. Beyond all reasonable hope and expectation, he’s going to stay alive a while longer, and he’s not alone. Who knows what else may be possible?

She leads him back past his space capsule, still suspended in the tree, and then on for another minute or so to a massive clearing in the forest, as large as several football fields.

She says, “You were supposed to land here.”

Borman can’t help laughing. “Was I? Sorry about that.”

“You think I’m joking. I’m telling you, Frank Borman, this is your proper destination. The place we prepared for your arrival.”

“Well golly… How was I supposed to know that?” says Borman.

“Knowing does not make it so. But it is the reason for the delay in welcoming your arrival.”

“Delay? I can’t have been here for more than half an hour. I’m amazed you found me so quickly.”

“It had been my hope to be present at the moment of your arrival.”

Borman scratches his head. “Are you telling me you knew I was coming?”

She laughs at him — at least he thinks that’s what she’s doing. Her face is oddly contorted. That noise she’s making could easily be a growl, but she’s definitely not giving off an aggressive vibe. “You were hard to miss,” she says. “You blew up the moon.”

“Yeah, but you made this clearing. And you know my name. Plus, I get the impression you put that moon up there just for me, or at least for someone you knew would come here one day. That monolith, or museum or whatever you wanna call it — I mean boy oh boy…” Words are starting to fail him.

She says, “I’m glad to finally see you.”

Borman is no giant, and this Martian female towers over him by a good three feet. Her eyes are her dominant feature. Big emerald ovals that stare at him with the same curiosity he has for her. Her nose is flat on her face, her mouth small. There is elegance and beauty in her demeanor. She is certainly no child.

To his list of strange things, he now adds their ability to converse. She is speaking English. Not French, not Arabic, not ancient Mesopotamian… English. That is quite clearly beyond the realm of mere coincidence. Yet he is also unsurprised by this, as if a part of him has always known such things were possible. Nevertheless, the scientist in him feels compelled to ask, “So how is it that you can speak my language?”

“I speak Martian.”

“Well heck, if that’s true then Martian must be what we’re speaking on Earth.”

She tilts her head to the right. “Our languages have nothing at all in common. We understand one another because this is my intention. Though in truth, this is more than I have spoken aloud to anyone in a long time.”

“Are you saying you’re all alone out here? I thought you said there were others.”

“I am not alone. But our people are scattered. We are not what you would call populous, yet there are enough to stand guard against all past and future outcomes.”

He doesn’t know what she means by this.

She says, “We have been here a very long time.”

He can tell her words carry with them a weight beyond his comprehension. “Will you tell me your name?”

“Holtz.”

“Pleased to meet you, Holtz.”

She holds up her hand and waves it slowly in an arc, like it’s her version of a handshake. “Very well, Frank Borman, lead the way.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You must choose your direction.”

“I’m not sure I follow…”

“No,” she says firmly.

“Sorry… What?”

“You must not follow. You must lead.”

“But you came here to meet me. I should follow you. Surely you know which way to go.”

“It is not a question of knowing the way.”

He stares at her, trying to work out if she’s making fun of him. Her face is a blank canvas. “You wanna give me a clue?”

“I will tell you this. There is no wrong decision. But you must be the one who chooses.”

He shakes his head. “I’m dead, aren’t I? You’re an angel sent here to test me.”

She walks over to him and takes his hand in hers. Five fingers and an opposable thumb. Her hand is long, her grip warm and firm. “Do you feel that?” He nods. She places his hand over his heart. “Now can you feel the beat of your heart?”

He smiles. “I’m surprised it’s not pounding.”

“You are not dead. Far from it.”

“Why do I feel like you’re about to send me on a wilderness survival course?”

“Choose a direction.”

“I just did that. You told me I was going the wrong way.”

“This is the place from where you must start.”

“Why?”

“It was ever thus.”

He’s running out of patience. “What the hell is going on here?”

She stares at him implacably. “Make your choice. Or I will leave and you’ll be on your own.”

“Oh, for God’ sake…” He starts walking back across the clearing toward the capsule. As it comes back into view, it’s as if his foot hits an invisible trigger. The tree limb supporting the capsule gives way and it crashes to the ground right beside where he’s standing. It shocks him to a standstill. The impact is heavy enough that Borman feels certain he’d have been seriously injured if he was still inside.

He looks at his leg again. She’s at his side before he realizes it, utterly uninterested in the capsule. She’s looking at him, waiting for him to move. He starts walking.

They journey through lavish forest. On each side of the path he chooses, the trees are thick and knotted, overlaid with moss and lichen. Knotted vines, from an abundance of old growth, stretch to a knitted canopy far above his head that leaves the forest floor in a cool silence. The forest is pristine, like nobody has ever set foot here before. The air is like nothing he has ever experienced. Every breath is a pleasure, full of so many layers of scent. Familiar and yet strange, a permanent reminder he is a long way from home. Every now and then, he hears leaves and branches rustle. Tiny legs scamper as unseen creatures scuttle out of their way. Animals or people, he knows not which.

The path ahead seems to be open in accordance with his intention. On several occasions, just as he is about to change direction to avoid what appears to be an impassable obstacle, one step further reveals a trail that takes him where he had intended to go all along. Only when his mind starts to drift and he loses focus does that trail disappear. And when he stops to consider where to go next, Holtz simply asks him once more, “Which way?” When he makes a decision, the trail reappears. Like the forest is responding to him.

It occurs to him there is something missing here. He walks up to a moss-covered log and pokes around on its surface. The wood is rotten. He picks up a rock and bashes through the soft decayed timber to the hollow inside. The violence of his action appears to startle Holtz, but she says nothing. When he reaches inside the log his hand pulls out wood pulp and moss, but it’s devoid of animal life. The log is warm and damp, a perfect nesting place for small insects and invertebrates, but there is no sign of them. “Where are all the bugs? A forest like this should be teeming with them.” She looks at him like she doesn’t recognize the word. “Bugs… cockroaches, ants, spiders. Mosquitoes, flies, moths. Forests can’t survive without them. Nor can the animals who live in them — they’re an essential part of the food chain. Where are they?”

They appear in their hundreds, crawling over his hand and up his arm. He shakes himself free and brushes them off. “Are these what you mean?” She gazes at a particularly large beetle like she’s never seen one like it before. “This chain of food, you have this in your forests. Of course you do, I remember my history.” Her eyes open widely and he stares at her, mesmerized. She says, “We have food. No chain. Martians don’t require it.”

“How is that possible? Everything needs food for energy. How do you survive without energy?”

“The universe is an infinite source of energy.”

Borman sits down on the log and runs his hand through his hair. “Lady, I’m starting to wonder if we really are understanding one another.”

Holtz takes his hand and urges him to stand up. She walks him over to a large tree — probably one of the biggest trees in the forest. Its pale and glossy trunk is as wide as a car, the branches stretch hundreds of feet in the air. He looks up and has trouble even making out its uppermost limbs. Holtz tells him to put his arms around the trunk.

“You want me to hug the tree?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“Do it and you’ll see.” Emphasis on the ‘see.’

He shrugs and wraps his arms around the trunk. It feels like no bark he’s ever touched before, more like a glassy skin.

“Close your eyes.”

He does as she suggests and the forest opens up to him. He’s viewing it from above, like he’s standing in the topmost branches of the tree. As if the tree itself has eyes. The sensation is one of both freedom and of total immobility. He sees the forest stretching away in all directions, and the banks of a river flowing a short distance away. He senses the incredible age of the tree and even some sort of residual consciousness. The tree itself is aware of its own existence. He feels a light breeze moving across the top of the forest canopy, hears birds singing in the distance and recognizes their call, even though he is hearing it now for the first time.

He lets go of the trunk and slowly opens his eyes. For a moment, he almost expects to find himself falling through the air from the treetop. But he finds himself in the same place he’s always been, safely on the forest floor, the trunk of the tree stretching above him now trusted and familiar.

Holtz simply nods in understanding, happy he has seen what she wanted him to see.

14

“Your science has a theory called quantum mechanics,” says Holtz. “You are familiar with it?”

“Of course,” Borman replies.

“This theory notes that matter has the characteristics both of a particle and a wave, what is known as particle-wave duality.”

“That’s right.”

“In our world, there is no such duality. All matter is a wave. It is fluid. Which means energy passes through all things much more freely.”

Borman’s eyes widen. “Then… You’re saying this is an entirely different universe.”

She nods. “There is a problem with this quantum theory of yours. It doesn’t explain everything. It is incomplete. Because it cannot describe the entire fabric of your universe when so much of it consists of radical energy.”

“Why radical?”

“It adheres to none of the laws of observable matter. It is a free agent, malleable, fluid and metamorphosing in exotic and unpredictable ways. It is radical energy that shapes this universe in direct synthesis with the Martian mind. It is a world of our creation.”

Not knowing how to respond, he simply starts to walk. “I want to see the river.”

She smiles and nods her approval. Almost as soon as he sets off, the river reveals itself. He is amazed how close they had been to its banks. The water is fast flowing, too wide and deep to cross. More than anything he finds he wants to cross, perhaps because the option is no longer open to him. There is a towering mountain range beyond the river that seems to be calling to him.

He kneels down at the edge of the river to take a drink. The water is cool and remarkably refreshing. The air is warm on the riverbank, bathed in sunlight. He finds pleasure in the sensation of the wind on his skin. Gratitude that he is still alive, that he miraculously can walk, but perhaps something more. As if the air itself is alive, the conscious breath of the forest. It feels far warmer here than logic would dictate. Mars is about one and a half times further away from the sun than the Earth. He would expect a corresponding drop in temperature, despite the thick Earth-like atmosphere. Yet it feels no cooler than a Spring morning in Texas.

He picks up a rock at the water’s edge and examines it. It appears familiar and unexotic, like a pebble you’d find in any fast-flowing river in America. He skims it over the surface, eliciting an exclamation of shock — or joy — from Holtz. The pebble keeps bouncing all the way over to the bank on the far side of the river. Borman has never skimmed a pebble this far in his life. The next one he picks up is smaller, intricately laced with bands of dark brown through speckled grey. He puts it in his pocket.

She sits down beside him. “Which way?”

He stares at the river. The water is flowing left to right. There’s something about those mountains. It makes sense to get to higher ground to see the lay of the land. “We should probably head upstream toward the source.”

“Is that your choice?”

“The hills look a long way off in that direction.”

She appears to understand. “Which way feels right?”

He turns right and starts following the river downstream. “I may live to regret this.”

The ground along the riverbank is easy going, but the river takes two sharp bends and then reaches a waterfall. The ground ahead falls away sharply down a rocky hillside, where the river continues about 200 feet below. The terrain is loose and treacherous. He could easily lose his footing, to say nothing of tearing his feet apart on the rocks. But there is a path across the river via the rocks that are placed like paving stones across the top of the waterfall. Without a second thought, he leads the way across the stone, slipping once on a slimy rock, but quickly regaining his balance.

On the other side of the river, he starts to move away from the rushing water where the land begins its gradual rise into the foothills of the mountains. Those peaks seem a whole lot closer now than they had a few minutes earlier. He picks his way up the slope until they reach a small plateau on the edge of a sheer rock face. The plateau leads either right or left into the forest. The trees here seem older, yet perhaps more sculpted. Each in balance with the one beside it. Almost like a life-size version of a Japanese bonsai garden. The land beneath the trees is perfect, covered in moss and short grass, so verdant and lush as to beg the observer to lie down and rest.

“Which way?” she asks.

To the left, the trees reveal the hillside, sweeping gradually higher through ground that looks manageable to traverse.

To the right, the plateau disappears around the rock face. This could be a dead end, except something tells him it isn’t. There’s only one way to find out.

A short distance around the end of the rock face, he stops dead in his tracks. The plateau ends in a rocky staircase carved into the mountainside itself. He runs up the stairs like a kid who’s just won a prize. At their top is an incredible amphitheater curve in the mountainside, a sculpted architectural marvel at one with the forest itself, like it has somehow been shaped by very powerful forces of nature. It is a vast and beautiful home that is both organic and simple.

Holtz steps up beside him. “You found it.” He looks at her in disbelief. “This is my home,” she says.

“I don’t understand…”

“Sometimes no matter which way you go, your destination is certain.”

Now it is Holtz who leads the way. The house is beautiful. To Borman, it is like a work of art. It has multiple terraces built into the hillside. Though somehow crafted intentionally, they remain a part of the forest. Interspersed through the trees are boulders of varying sizes that have been carved into geometric works of art, covered in ivy and small epiphytes.

She sees the look of wonder on his face and smiles. “I admire beauty in nature and I sought to emulate it in my home,” she explains.

“You built this place?”

“For us, this is not so hard.”

They move up through two more terraced levels to a little water course that is flowing through center of the house itself — a small tributary feeding the river that cascades down the mountainside into a rocky grotto alongside her house. On either side of the water, stairs rise to a terrace across from which three small trees grow. Seemingly ancient and perfectly shaped, none are more than eight feet tall. Behind them, an open-plan house like a cave has been carved into the mountainside.

The light blue water in the grotto is incredibly inviting. She says, “Please, swim.”

He pulls off his LCG and his shirt, and dives into the water. It is crystal clear. He gulps down the water thirstily — somehow knowing it is fine to drink — and it is the most glorious water he has ever tasted… Cool, sweet and bursting with a life force of its own.

She joins him in the water and they swim together for a long time, splashing one another like children. Holtz swims like a fish and appears to have the ability to remain under water for as long as she likes. Her big feet are like a pair of flippers, moving her through the water with speed and grace. She is so obviously in her element, he wonders if Martians might be amphibious.

The rock pool is shallow near its perimeter, but disappears rapidly into the black depths. Lower down, he sees dozens of fish of various sizes clinging to the shadows, although they appear untroubled by Holtz when she swims close. The water is clear. While he sees a long way down, the bottom is lost in inky blackness. He manages to freak himself out when he sees Holtz peering back up at him from the depths like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

He heads for the comfort of the shallows. Swimming to the edge of the pool, he pulls himself into a chair-shaped cleft hewn into the edge of the rock pool. From here, the water is a glowing aqua and the sight is so glorious he feels more than a little foolish for being so easily startled, until he reminds himself where he is.

Holtz’s home has the feel of an Acapulco resort. She breaks the surface and swims toward him. He asks, “Does everyone on Mars live like this?”

“There are not so many of us,” she says. “We have more than enough of everything to live in abundance.”

“Do you live alone?”

She shrugs. “In this place, I am free to be the version of myself I want to be. A free thinker. Among my people, I’m what’s called an Outlier.”

“That suggests thinking freely isn’t possible when others are around.”

She answers like she’s speaking to a child. “It is for the betterment of all concerned I am alone now.”

“Why?”

“Because I am as I am.”

“A free thinker?”

“And a female.”

“There’s no women’s lib on Mars?”

She stares at him for a while before shrugging her shoulders.

He says, “I guess you’re not familiar with that term.”

“No, I understand. And I see you. It’s you who doesn’t regard women as your equal.”

Borman shakes his head. “No, that’s not true. My wife Susan…”

“Stayed home to look after your sons. She is a good spouse and mother. Allowing you to be away from home… to fly in space.”

“How do you know that?”

“Some thoughts are like words. They are easily heard by those who know how to listen.”

“You’re listening to my thoughts now?” She doesn’t deny it. Nor does she appear in the least part concerned that it bothers the heck out of him. She climbs out of the rock pool, half suspecting the water itself is aiding her in the process.

“Water and air are elements. They are not to be feared.” She steps out of the water and immediately appears to be dry. “Nor am I.”

He steps away from her toward the edge, where the grotto’s water cascades over the lower terraces of her abode. It’s a struggle to get his head around the concept. This feels like an invasion of his privacy, especially since he can’t read her mind in return. But this world of hers is truly a thing of beauty. The air here is pristine. As far as he can tell, it’s devoid of any pollutant. They are either deep inside virgin forest, or Martian technology has surpassed the need to burn fuel for energy.

But there’s more to it than that. The life in the air seems to carry joy. It certainly has that effect on him; he’s never experienced anything like it. A vitality that fills his lungs with every breath. On Earth, he has always felt like an interloper in the wilderness, knowing it to be a place in which he could never feel completely comfortable, nor totally at ease.

In the early days of his astronaut training, they were abandoned to extremity in the wilds of the desert around Stead Air Force Base in Nevada. They had to build improvised shelter and make clothes out of parachutes, to prepare for the possibility of landing off target. That experience had reinforced a feeling that had been with him since the earliest days of his childhood. Despite the loving attention of his father, who used to take him fishing and camping, Borman had come to see the deep forest as a place to be endured. To survive and not to thrive. Maybe his own illness as a kid had undermined his confidence in that regard, but the feeling of his own insignificance in the landscape never abated.

In a broader sense, it was reinforced by his observation as he grew older that humans have always been at odds with nature. Separated from it, one step removed from nature’s delicate balance, but also from the harsh and unyielding fight for dominance. Humanity had won that fight and remains unassailable at the top of the food chain.

But here on Mars, according to Holtz, that chain doesn’t exist. More than that, he suspects that in this world it has never existed. Holtz is not one step removed from her natural surroundings: she’s a part of them. She sees him thinking. No doubt sees the thoughts themselves. There is a sparkle in her eyes that he takes to be empathy. She says, “Let me ask you this, Frank Borman: if NASA chose to use women as astronauts, would you approve?”

“You’re asking the wrong question. NASA chooses astronauts from among Air Force test pilots and jet pilots. There aren’t any women flying jets in the US Air Force.”

“Why not?”

“I guess the Air Force has always thought it’s a man’s job.”

“A policy you have never sought to challenge,” she suggests.

“It’s not for me to say.”

“Yet you do have an opinion on the matter.”

Borman bristles. “Then I guess you know it already.”

Holtz says, “My point is this: Martian rule of law is unbending and beyond question. It is decided upon by unanimous consent and is therefore it is above debate.”

“What the heck is unanimous consent? Sounds a whole lot like totalitarianism.”

She smiles. “On this, Frank Borman, you may be surprised to learn we agree. It is why I am here — to exercise the right of dissent. We believe in truth, you and I, though I’m sure you’ll agree it’s a belief that can be easy to set aside.”

He immediately thinks of Susan. Holtz sees it in his eyes. She says, “Half-truths are easy when you tell yourself it’s for the greater good. Yet the person you lie most to is yourself, I think.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Not as well as I would like, it is true.”

He turns away from her. He feels like he’s standing in front of her naked. If a woman on Earth said that to him, he’d have no doubts about what she had on her mind. He knows Holtz has no sexual interest in him, nor he in her, but her words make him uneasy just the same. This, he suspects, is her intention.

She takes a step toward him, then stops like she’s being careful not to push him too far. “At times,” she says, “I am called upon to express my opinion to the Martian people. I give it freely and unencumbered by the views of others. There are others like me. They do so as well. Soon you will meet some of them. We serve the greater good… as voices in the wilderness.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“I am left to live in what you might call exile. Though now I ponder it, perhaps seclusion is a more accurate way to describe it. At the beginning, this was a temporary arrangement. I came to like it. For me, there is no going back.”

“Don’t you miss contact with your people?”

“I have as much contact as I could ever want. Close your eyes.”

He frowns, but complies.

“What do you see?”

“The back of my eyelids. Why, what do you see?”

She pauses to consider her response. “Something else… I see an eye. Looking back at me.”

Borman frowns. “Who’s eye?”

“No one’s. Everyone’s. It doesn’t matter. Every time is different. But it tells me I’m never alone.”

“You mean someone’s always watching you.”

She turns sharply to face him. “Not in the way you think. It is not spying. It is not an invasion of privacy — it is connection. Communion.”

Borman reckons they’ll be watching him too.

15

Borman looks out at the afternoon shadows, moving like ghosts across the treetops. The river roars incessantly below. The view from her broad terrace is majestic. He feels like he could stare at it forever, marveling at the similarities and all the tiny variations compared with a similar vista on Earth. He stands at the edge. There is no railing. One wrong step could send him off the edge and into the rock pool below. The danger of it is exhilarating.

She has brought him a cornucopia of fruit on a broad open platter, sculpted roughly from some sort of resin. Perhaps the plate itself is edible. He chooses a small red bulb that looks like a grape. It’s delicious; sweet and sour at the same time. Emboldened, he tries a bright green fruit like a fig. It falls open on his tongue like a sugar-filled wafer that melts in his mouth. Sweet, but not sickly. Its seeds are almost salty. It reminds him he’s incredibly hungry and he begins to devour everything on the tray. Each new piece of fruit tastes better than the last.

Holtz looks pleased her guest is enjoying the food, but doesn’t partake. She silently observes the forest. Two birds circle the treetops. It’s the first animal life he’s seen since his arrival. He points at the trees. “Do you have many different sorts of birds?”

“Many birds,” she says. Like she’s not listening. To his surprise, he sees a look of concern on her face. He picks up a bunch of grapes and takes them to her. She shakes her head at his offering.

He asks, “Is something wrong?”

“The method of your arrival. It troubles us.”

Us? “Why?”

“Because of its imperfection.”

“Ohh heck, I wouldn’t get too worried about that. Less than ten years ago, we were hard-pressed getting a capsule back to Earth inside a ten-mile radius. I think it’s remarkable you predicted the one place on the planet I’d land. I could just as easily have come down half a world away.”

“Prediction has nothing to do with it. Have I not already explained this to you? It was not supposed to happen this way. We live in a metaphorical universe. There will be consequences.”

He grabs her by the arm. “I don’t know what that means. But I’m telling you from my perspective — from orbital re-entry to touch down, I pretty much hit the bullseye. There’s no fine tuning in that landing procedure. Once those drogue parachutes open, I go where they take me.”

She nods condescendingly again, like she thinks him naive.

“I orbited six or seven times up there, trying to decide where best to come down. But you’re saying I was somehow always destined to land right there, out of everywhere else on your planet? I don’t know how that’s possible. In my world, things like that don’t happen. Folks just can’t make those sorts of predictions with any kind of certainty.”

“The knowing is not so hard. Sometimes destination is inevitable.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me again.”

“There are bigger questions for you to consider. Such as the gateway on our moon. You call it Phobos? To us, it is the Monument. It was placed in orbit more than 20,000 years ago as an open invitation to the people of Earth. We knew somebody would come. But we are no longer certain that person is you.”

20,000 years? He turns away from her, battling with the magnitude of it.

She says, “These are all parts of the same question, Frank. Are you brave enough to accept the answer? I thought I knew, but perhaps the question remains unanswerable.”

A slight breeze lifts off the forest below. It is fresh and alive, but it only further confounds his logic. Nothing makes sense. Is that because he doesn’t want it to? He says, “I don’t know what to believe.”

“This is humanity’s greatest dilemma. Your beliefs cloud your judgment. They blind you to what is right in front of your face.”

His head is spinning. Almost as if the fruit is having some sort of narcotic effect. “I think I need to take a walk.”

She appears to understand and is happy to let him leave. He starts walking and as he places one foot in front of the other, suddenly overcome by the need to get away from her. “I’ll try not to get lost,” he tells her.

Holtz replies, “Your destination is never in doubt.” Borman retraces his steps back through the forest in the direction they came. She watches him disappear into the trees.

When she is certain he cannot see, she nods and Skioth emerges from inside the house to join her on the terrace. He touches Holtz on the shoulder and she reaches for him hungrily, like they haven’t seen one another for months. For the longest time, they remain embraced in silent communion. But events of this magnitude demand that certain matters are placed on the record.

Skioth opens his eyes wide. They speak, though neither says a word. He is not being truthful.

Holtz shakes her head slightly. It’s only because he is not being truthful with himself.

You cannot leave him alone for too long.

He is no danger, she insists.

You are wrong.

She looks at him sharply, eyes wide open, like his blunt opinion is a slap to her face.

He continues. Borman is corrupted. Imperfect. He spreads imperfection like a disease. I will not let this go on for much longer.

We need more time to understand, Holtz pleads.

The simplest solution to a problem is to eliminate the danger.

She stares back at him in genuine horror. He means no harm. He has no weapons.

We are the guardians of our race, Skioth reminds her. We must act decisively. We cannot allow purpose to be undermined by sentiment. He is a bigger problem than he seems.

There is a gulf between them now. One of Skioth’s making. Their union is severed. She feels it keenly, realizing she can no longer be sure if it is only the Arrival standing between them. I will not countenance excision.

Skioth stands his ground. Then you must allow me to act.

She stares into his eyes with a sense of loss and long-forgotten loneliness, nods her head to assure him the necessity is agreed upon, then turns away.

When she turns back, he is gone. For the first time, she doesn’t know where.

16

Alone among the trees and the wilderness, Borman starts to feel things differently. A fear inside him starts to grow. There is a buzzing in the air above him that comes and goes. He looks up, but sees nothing. He begins to develop the overwhelming sensation he is being watched. Once again, a path seems to appear before him, but now he is also aided by the memory of the steps he has taken before. He follows the path, half driven by the familiar, half by his desire to get as far away from Holtz as he can. Something in that fruit has definitely had an effect on him.

After a few minutes, he realizes he knows exactly where he’s going. Back to the space capsule. He wants to see something familiar, and also try to get the radio working. He slaps his neck, feeling something bite him. When he pulls his hand away, there is a smear of blood on his fingers. He has just killed a large mosquito.

There is a dull thump somewhere on the forest floor. It sounds like it should have been a long way off, but it’s heavy enough for him to feel the vibration in his feet. He hears an animal roar, as if in response. It’s a terrible sound, like nothing he’s ever heard before. It jars with the sense of safety he had felt on his arrival, makes him wonder what deadly Martian wildlife is lurking out there just out of sight.

The light changes, like a cloud passing over the sun. He looks up and is surprised to see the orbiting Monument once more, streaking across the upper atmosphere, leaving behind it a fiery red trail. It reminds him of a comet. How it is still in orbit, he has no idea. It’s as if the Monument and the planet are attracting and repelling one another in equal measure, in obstinate defiance of the laws of physics.

As he winds his way back along the riverbank, he becomes mildly concerned that he could miss the turning point. But when he sees his own footprints in the mud, he can recall every step. He finds the very place he had stood skimming stones. When he looks up, he can see the tree that had shown him the way. From here, it’s a straight line back to the capsule.

He climbs back inside and examines the interior. Everything is exactly as he left it. His space suit is still crumpled up in the corner right where he threw it before he leapt out of the hatch. It occurs to him there will probably be food stowed here. Earth food. He pulls open a compartment and chows down on a candy bar. The taste reminds him of home. He tries the radio, calling to Houston. To anyone.

No response.

Someone or something bangs on the outside of the capsule. It’s incredibly loud. The shock of it makes him sit up and he bangs his skull on the bulkhead. He climbs back outside, half wondering if he should look around for a weapon to defend himself.

“Frank?”

A familiar voice. But it couldn’t be. “Donald?”

Menzel steps out from behind the capsule in relief. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I saw the empty capsule and feared the worst.”

Borman hugs Menzel like a long-lost friend. He has never been so happy to see anyone in his life. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, Donald. But how did you get here?”

Menzel smiles, pausing as if to remember. “Your spacesuit. I had a locator disc attached to the side of your PLSS. But when I got here and I saw you’d left your space suit behind… Well, I figured I’d wait here and hope you came back.”

“Do you know where you are?”

Menzel nods, smiling.

“There are people here, Donald. Martians. One of them is helping me. You need to meet her.”

“No,” Menzel says firmly. “It’s not safe to stay here anymore. We have to leave. It’s a miracle you’re still alive. We need to come back in greater numbers. You can’t do this on your own. You don’t know their intentions. You don’t know anything about them.”

“They seem to know a lot about me.”

“All the more reason to back off and regroup. Come back when we’re good and ready. With more of a show of strength.”

Borman frowns. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. If Holtz is anything to go by, they’re not belligerent.” He hears the snap of a twig on the ground behind him, and turns quickly to see two Martian figures about twenty feet away and walking towards them.

Behind him, Menzel starts struggling. Two other Martians have appeared as if from nowhere to grab the scientist by the arms. They start to drag him away into the forest. His struggles and protestations make no impression upon his captors, both of whom are twice his size. They carry him away like a child having a tantrum.

Borman considers running after them, but before his brain can tell his feet to move, the idea is supplanted by the compulsion to remain where he is standing.

Someone else is inside his head. Someone he can’t resist.

17

Your friend will not be harmed.

Parxotic is her name. She speaks without opening her mouth. Her thoughts beam straight into Borman’s skull loud and clear, like they’re a radio signal and his brain is the receiver. As if that isn’t strange enough, Borman realizes the voice comes embedded with a certain knowledge of the speaker. It imbues him with the instinctive understanding of which one of the two is speaking to him now. He stares into Parxotic’s eyes and sees immediately they understand one another, that this is a two-way process.

He doesn’t like that one little bit. “Get out of my skull, dammit.”

Why is the human mind so fragile?

“Stop it. Just… stop. Talk normally. Like Holtz. Open your mouth and speak.”

Parxotic seems genuinely surprised by Borman’s objection, but she does as the astronaut suggests. “Is this better?”

Relieved, Borman assures her it is. Of all the strangeness he has experienced on Mars, this must surely take the cake.

“It may be good for you,” says Parxotic, staring intently at Borman’s companion, “but to us it is crude. Words are too easy to misinterpret.”

“Maybe so,” says Borman, “but on Earth they lock you up in a padded cell when you hear voices in your head.” It makes him doubt himself, like maybe he’s starting to lose it. “Where are you taking my friend?”

“You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“Then why not tell me now?”

“I can make you see, if you’ll let me.”

“Not if it means what I think it means.”

“Telepathic connection is the most efficient way to answer your question.”

“Stay out of my head.”

Parxotic merely studies him in silence, leaving Borman feeling like a lab rat facing imminent dissection. He knows he’ll be helpless to resist if they decide to drag him away too. What must it feel like to have that much power over another person? Do the Martians treat one another like this?

Borman is wondering why Parxotic is showing any restraint at all, when Holtz appears like an answer to the question.

“You will not do this,” Holtz commands, stepping in between them. “He is my guest. He remains with me.”

Parxotic stands her ground, examining Holtz with an expression Borman figures as something close to sympathy. “This matter has gone too far,” she replies.

“He has not come here to harm us,” says Holtz. “He has no weapons. He’s shown no sign of violence. It is beyond acceptance for you to treat his kind this way.”

Parxotic shows what must pass for a smile. To Borman, it’s more like a grimace, but he senses the emotion behind it. She says, “Be it upon your head when he turns against you.”

Borman is about to speak. Holtz holds up her hand to stop him, and he actually feels his jaw clamp shut. She’s still facing down her fellow Martian. “Leave us now, Parx. Do not make me take this further.” Like she’s spoiling for a fight.

Parxotic looks primed for physical confrontation, but apparently thinks better of it. Without another word, she turns and walks away. In three steps, she is gone. Vanished, like a ghost. Somewhere in the back of his head, Borman recalls they can do that.

“What about my friend?” he asks Holtz.

“He won’t be harmed. I’ll make sure of it.”

He says, “You could have asked them to let him go.”

“You I can defend. Your ‘friend’ I don’t know.” She starts to walk away.

18

She saved him. But from what? And where have they taken Menzel?

There is something about it he’s missing that remains deeply troubling. He’s angry with Holtz. Though he can’t be sure whether it’s his own anger, or the residual effect of locking minds with her Martian cohort. She knows it; there’s no hiding it from her. Then there is the nagging question of whether she drugged the fruit, but he quickly dismisses it. His life is entirely in her hands now, one way or another. If he trusts her, maybe she’ll return the favor. “Donald Menzel is my ticket home. If you want me to leave, the easiest way is to get him freed from captivity. Just let us leave and we’ll never come back.”

She scowls at him. “How will you leave?”

“Menzel. He can get us home.”

She shakes her head. “I know you believe that. But it’s not true.”

She believes she knows more about all this than he does.

Admittedly, Borman cannot say for certain how Bermuda will react to all of this. What troubles him most of all, is why they sent him here with both arms tied behind his back. Why did nobody, Menzel especially, trust him enough to keep him in the loop? Unless they knew all along he’d never agree to what they had in mind.

“Why would you want to leave?” she asks him. She poses her question like she’s asking him what he has to hide. “You only just got here.”

She has a string of questions about Donald Menzel. Odd questions. About his mental state, his education, even the color of his eyes. Which is odd, because Borman is able to tell her they are blue. He has no conscious awareness of previously noting the color of the scientist’s eyes, but the knowledge is there, just the same.

He tells her all he remembers, which isn’t much. How Menzel was instrumental in his journey to Mars, how he’d come here specifically to get Borman home. Which, come to think of it, does seem strange. He admits he can’t explain it.

“You are not making this easy,” she says. “There are those among our people who will listen closely if my brothers and sisters declare you and your friend enemies of the Martian people. You must stop this pretense and tell me why you are here.”

“I’ve told you everything. You watched me land. You saw my ship. I didn’t land here with an army — why are you so afraid of us?”

“The Outliers are defenders of our people. The front line. All who arrive must go through us.”

He gives her his full recollection of his arrival on Phobos, trying his best to leave nothing out. “At first I thought I was on our Moon. I had no idea where I was, let alone what I would find. Next thing I know, I’ve triggered a dimensional gateway and I’m in a different universe.”

“And you think your friend knows more than he told you? Do you think he knew what you would find on Phobos?”

“I have no idea. Maybe. If so, he didn’t let me in on the plan. Someone has tampered with my memory — my money is on the Russians.”

“Humans love secrets, don’t you? What you fail to grasp is the freedom in truth.”

“Telling the truth all the time is easier said than done. Some things are kept secret for a very good reason.”

“We have dispelled with secrets, and made this the founding principle of our world, in the hope we shall avoid ending up like the world we left behind.”

“Tell me about that old Mars,” he urges. “What happened?”

“If not for our scientists, the Martian race would no longer exist. At that time, our world was much like yours — beautiful and fragile in its imperfection. We were at peace with one another, although war was not unknown to our kind back then.

“And we knew of life on other worlds. There was movement between the planets. My ancestors even visited Earth, long ago. Tens of thousands of years ago. What you call humanity did not exist then… At least, this is what Martian history tells us.”

“You didn’t seek to colonize Earth?”

“There were those among us who chose to stay, but they were not many. And their colonies did not last long. They found the Earth gravity harsh and they found they missed home. Also, they noticed a peculiar change had come over them. They were different people. Their personalities, their feelings, their innermost desires began to change. Some thought this was a form of madness, but it was found to be something far subtler, the effect of the Earth’s magnetic field.”

Borman frowns. “How is that even possible?”

“Like so many things, magnetism plays a key role in consciousness and memory. But more than that, it’s tied to the magnetism at your place of origin. The place of your birth. At least, this is the case for Martians, but I believe it to be a universal principle and thus also true of humankind.”

“Isn’t that just called feeling homesick?”

“Memory and emotion are connected, but there is more to it than that. This was an important discovery for us, one that ultimately led to the salvation of our people.”

“How so?”

“It led us to discover a way to interact with radical energy — all around us yet all but impossible to detect. This, in turn, brought Martians into contact with people from other worlds. First among them was a nomadic people known to us as the Befalyn.”

“Nomadic? How does that work on an interplanetary scale?”

“Their planet passes briefly through our solar system, though ours is not the only sun it orbits. It is a small planet, not much bigger than the largest moons of Annulus.” She assumes Borman is likewise familiar with this planet, but his blank expression warrants further prompting. “The ringed giant.”

Finally, he gets it. “Saturn.”

“Their world, we call it Turatine, it wanders through our planetary system on an elliptical orbit that carries it all the way from the binary star.”

“You mean Sirius.” She blinks at him in affirmation. “How come nobody on Earth knows of this planet?”

“Turatine’s orbital path takes thousands of years to complete. It is many hundreds of years away from returning. The Befalyn were known to Earth long ago, though not by that name. This is the name we chose for them. It’s a very old Martian term of derision, it means ‘infestation’.”

“You really don’t like them, do you?”

“No. But still we traded with them. They brought us rare minerals obtained from across the solar system, which we traded for gold.”

“There is gold on Mars,” he notes distantly.

“The old world, not this one. We made sure of that. The Befalyn also shared with us their most advanced science, and at one time maintained a presence among the Martian people. Then one day their presence began to grow. They had come to believe they were welcome among us. But the Martian people had only tolerated their presence for the purposes of trade. The war between our two peoples started on a small scale.”

Like all wars, Borman thinks.

“One of their kind was killed. Then two of ours, followed by five of theirs. And so it went. Our leaders sought to call a truce, but urged them to leave for their own safety. The Befalyn said they had already traded their way onto the Martian surface and had every right to stay. Many among us agreed. And so, we worked hard to make peace. For a long time, we succeeded. This was a period of great advancement for Mars. We could not know it was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it. But this was when we developed the abilities that ultimately saved us from extinction.”

She has his attention now. “I’d very much like to hear more about that,” Borman says.

“We began examining the interplay between large magnetic fields and consciousness, how thought and memory are linked to magnetics. This in turn broadened our understanding of radical energy.”

“Yes, you mentioned that before…”

“It is the force that binds the universe — all universes. But it also defies logic and the uniformity of principle. It is malleable. Changeable. It responds to intention.”

“What… like magic?”

“In a way, yes. This is the discovery made by us. But it came as a result of the crude principles taught to us by Befalyn scientists.”

“I think I see where this is going.”

“As I say, there was peace for many years. Until a Martian woman was taken by a group of their men. They were new arrivals. Turatine had reappeared on its journey through our solar system. These visitors had no respect for Martians. Especially for our women. They treated us with contempt.”

“They raped her…”

Holtz nods. “And tortured, and finally killed her. Hatred between our two people reappeared quickly. It had always been there, I think, just below the surface. But now it spread like disease. This was when the visitors were branded Befalyn — it is, I think, a term that belittles us both.”

Her story is at once intriguing and draining of his mental resources. As much as he wants her to keep talking, he finds he is barely able to keep his eyes open. She sees this and stops.

“We will talk more,” she assures him. “Now you must sleep.”

Even as she says the word, he feels himself slipping deeper into unconsciousness.

19

Borman can hear strange animalistic noises. Scratching sounds. It’s dark. He’s lost in the trees. Nothing looks familiar and he can’t remember how he got there. He sees something bloody and mangled on the forest floor. The remains of an animal. It’s being torn apart by a horrific looking creature — some brutish mutant crossbred wolf and bear. Sensing his presence, it turns on him, blood and gore still dripping from its fangs. Though its appetite has been sated, it looks ready to rip his throat out.

He runs. Faster than he could ever run on Earth. He feels himself speeding up as adrenalin drives him forward and he knows he has to outrun the creature. But which way? He’s still lost. For all he knows, he’s running further away from safety.

There is a voice in his head. A woman’s voice. He remembers her. It’s like he’s known her all his life. Not Susan. It’s nobody he can recall from Earth, yet remember her he does. And he loves her. He really loves this woman. Her voice is soothing. He can’t see her face. She is little more than a dark outline, a silhouette.

It’s safe.

The same two words again and again. When he asks what she means, she says them again. He doesn’t know what she means. He’s longing for her, wants to draw her close, but she’s always out of reach. Unattainable.

The wolf-bear is ahead of him now. It leaps down from high in the trees and lands in front of him. All this time it has been watching. Waiting.

The shock of imminent death shakes him from his sleep and almost immediately the dream fades from his grasp. He can sense the fear, feel his heart pounding, but all he can remember are the woman’s words. It’s safe. Despite all evidence to the contrary.

It takes him a good five minutes to work out where he is. The room is strange. It looks suspiciously like a den. He is inside someone’s house. There are no photos. No trophies. Just a bed and a bare table with a single chair. The walls are smooth. Polished stone. But when he puts his hand to it, the wall is warm to touch. It’s like the house is alive.

The sensation is so startling, he recoils instinctively and gets to his feet. He tests his foot. Hadn’t he had a problem with his ankle? It feels fine now. He does a few stretches to wake himself up.

The room has no door. It’s still dark outside, but he senses dawn is close. Wide awake, he sets off to explore the house.

It’s huge. A network of rooms expands out from the center in a series of radial corridors. Several of the larger rooms are adorned with sculptured twists of wood, lit from odd angles by skylights and windows in the strangest places. A sense of familiarity returns to him, although for a minute or two he is half convinced this is yet another dream.

Then he reaches the terrace overlooking the forest. The first light of day glow in the sky above the darkened forest. It fills him with an extreme sense of wonder to think he has awoken on a different planet. Wonder underpinned by trepidation, because still nothing makes sense. His past has been taken from him; his present circumstances are entirely out of his control.

Holtz arrives at his side without a word, seemingly happy to join him in silent contemplation. She stands so close he can feel the warmth of her body and he remembers the other woman’s presence in his dreams. Holtz is reading him now, he can tell. She sees it.

She asks, “How did you sleep?”

“Remarkably well, in fact.”

“Good.”

“Is it?”

“You’re unhappy with me.”

It doesn’t take a mind reader to work that out. He says, “Today you and me are gonna free my friend, Donald.” If he hasn’t already been clever enough to get himself the heck out of there. Borman wouldn’t blame the man for leaving without him. “But before we do that, why don’t you tell me more about this power of yours to get inside my head. That ‘friend’ of yours who took him… Parxotic… had me frozen in my tracks. I couldn’t move a muscle.”

“Focused intention.”

“Meaning you can do whatever the hell you like.”

“We are all connected to that intention. It is the fundamental principle holding our world together. We are conjoined with that force — we’re a part of it. It’s the source of our strength. The reason disputes between our people have been non-existent before your arrival. Speaking aloud, like this? It’s been outmoded for a very long time. You might even say frowned upon.”

“For how long?” She knows, but appears reluctant to say. “Come on, humor me.

She whispers, “Thousands of years…” and it feels like she’s giving up a secret.

“You’re saying my presence here has split you from your people.” She nods, her eyes wide and mournful. She feels as alone as he does. She’s on her own here as his protector. How long can that last? “Holtz, where I come from disagreement is a good thing. It’s how we get things done. We talk, we compromise. We improve. Not always, I’ll grant you, but…”

“Martians have always been of one mind.”

“That sounds way too much like groupthink to me.” She doesn’t appear to understand the term. “Mind control? How can everyone possibly agree on everything?”

“This world is fundamentally different to yours. To say we control one another’s thoughts is to misunderstand what I have told you about the way our universe functions within itself.”

“I couldn’t live somewhere I wasn’t free to be myself and speak my mind.”

She says, “We have always allowed space for alternate viewpoints. But we exist in a higher state. Where time no longer exists. Where past, present, and future can all be viewed as one. All events in this universe can be observed and experienced at will.”

To Borman, this sounds like overreach. “Are you telling me Martians see the face of God?”

“This face of ‘God’ is within all these things. It is just your name for the radical energy field all around us. It is not removed, it is here.” She leans down and touches the stone floor beneath their feet, as if to illustrate her point. “All things, all people, all levels of consciousness, are connected. One can ride those connections as you would ride a train from one place to another. The destination resides within the intention. In this way, we have no need for religion, philosophy or ideology. We simply exist inside a single intention. There is little space for confusion or disagreement.”

“Until now,” says Borman. Again, she nods, but it’s like her heart is being ripped from her chest. “On Earth, the only freedom we know of comes from disagreement. In politics, in religion. Heck, even in marriage. I guess that sounds strange to you.”

“Ours is a universe of common thought. Science, theosophy, social interaction… These things are meaningless to us because we trust each other as we trust ourselves.”

He says, “To us, science and religion have always been mutually exclusive.”

“Yet you seek to live in both modalities.”

Borman shrugs. “It’s not easy, I’ll grant you.”

“In our world, we are the gods.”

A day ago, he’d have condemned the remark as arrogance, but now he takes a moment to think before responding. “In my belief system, there is only one God.”

She shakes her head slowly. “Humanity’s beliefs have been hiding the truth for thousands of years. But I speak not of your beliefs — I talk about what ‘is’.”

“You’re saying you know the truth, and we don’t.”

“It’s not that simple. This universe allows us to see things that remain veiled from your understanding.”

“Yet here I am, taking that step forward, holding out the hand of friendship. I came here in peace. It seems to me you must have the capability to visit us, yet you’ve stayed away. Why is that?”

“Our worlds no longer share the same space. If we travelled from this Mars to the Earth that circles this sun, you would not find the world you call home.”

* * *

She feeds him dates and berries and something sour and bitter that tastes like a combination of artichoke and lemon. There seems no point in resisting the food. He is completely at her mercy. Her world, her rules. He’s not like them, he won’t survive long if he doesn’t eat. And while he senses there is much about her “intention,” that remained hidden from view, he no longer suspects her of any ill intent. She has paid a steep price for his freedom, and may soon be called upon to do it again.

He finds the food tastes better this time. Indeed, it’s better than he remembers food could taste. So good, it’s almost sexual. It stimulates his senses and fills him with a pulsating and euphoric vitality. He holds up one of the red berries, which is like a cross between a raspberry and a plum. Its juice dribbles down his chin as he bites into it and the sensation fills him with pleasure. “You grow these yourself?”

She nods, pleased the berries are to his taste.

“Where’s your garden?”

“They grow in the forest. I pick what I want. And I always find what I need.”

“Always? Like they just appear in front of you when you go looking?”

“Metaphorical universe, remember? Think and ye shall receive.”

“Like how you got me to find the way to your home?”

“That’s right.”

“You were testing me.”

“I’m learning who you are.”

He picks up a large orange grape and pops it in his mouth. It floods his palate with a sweet juice and its flesh is wonderfully delicate on his tongue. He’s starting to feel like every mouthful helps him understand the Martian world a little better. It certainly gives him a sense of why such vibrant abundance would engender in its people a strong desire to defend and protect.

Seemingly out of the blue, Holtz asks him, “Who is Ningal?”

He frowns. “No idea. Why?”

“You spoke her name aloud last night while you were sleeping.”

“Did I?”

“More than once.”

He shrugs and shakes his head a little. “Sorry, I guess I must’ve been dreaming. Odd name, don’t know where I came up with that.”

“Do you always forget your dreams?”

“Most of the time. It’s pretty rare to wake up remembering everything that went on in your head during the night.”

She looks at him like it says far more about him than he realizes. He asks, “What do Martians dream about?”

She stares deep into his eyes with a cat-like intensity, making certain she has his full attention. “Our dreams are an expansion of our awakening. A time to draw parallels and connections with all that has taken place during the day. To better see where our choices may take us both now and in future.”

“You can do all of that in a dream?”

She nods. “And when I wake up I remember it all.”

20

The forest floor is warm and damp, like there’s been a tropical downpour in the night. He can’t recall it raining, but then he’d slept like the dead. They’re walking side by side, a new path this time. He tries to take it all in. The trees and the latent scurrying of small creatures, previously unnoticed but now somehow more abundant, are obviously present. Like they had finally awoken to his presence, or he to theirs. Borman wonders dimly if they are no more than a figment of his imagination, thoughts placed in his head by his hostess in an effort to make him feel more at home.

He has seen nothing in the way of technology. No cars, no telephonic devices, radios nor television. Holtz has built her home from the very rock beneath her feet and molded it to her will.

“There is nothing we require that we don’t already possess,” she tells him, reading his thoughts again. “The only thing missing is the inconceivable.”

He doesn’t know what that means. He’s still trying to frame his lack of understanding into a meaningful question, when she stops to indicate they have arrived at their destination. He sees nothing but more forest in every direction.

Holtz reaches out her hand and appears to mime grabbing a hold of something, though he can see nothing there for her to grasp. But as she pulls her arm back, a black rectangle appears. It’s as if they are standing on a giant set, and this is the doorway to exit the sound stage. She steps into the darkness, trailing an arm behind that beckons him to follow. He takes a breath and steps through the hole in the world.

The door closes behind him, and for a moment everything is completely black. “You there?”

She grabs his arm reassuringly. “I’m right here.”

“Where are we?” There are walls close by; he senses them before he sees them. As he focuses his mind on the space around them, the walls start to emit a strange dull light of their own, just enough to illuminate a path ahead.

They are in a tunnel that continues in a line for about a hundred yards or so, to a ramp that descends steeply into what he assumes to be some sort of underground bunker. Holtz leads him down the ramp, which spirals, leaves him feeling utterly disconnected from the forest they just left behind. After they descend for several minutes, the ramp brings them to a chamber about the size of a double garage. It has a prison-like feel to it.

A Martian stands facing them at the furthest end of the chamber. He is neither pleased nor angry, apparently unsurprised by their arrival. Borman figures he has Holtz to thank for that. He tries to swallow the suspicion that she has just delivered him into captivity. She gently places her hand on his back and nudges him forward, saying nothing. Meaning, he supposes, he needs to find out for himself.

“My name is Frank Borman. I have come…”

“It is good to finally meet you, Colonel Borman. I know why you are here,” he says. “My name is Skioth.” He turns and starts to walk. “Please,” he urges, “come this way.”

Borman follows him through another doorway behind him, even though his instincts scream at him to run in the other direction. Through the next doorway, he finds a square room devoid of furniture and adornment, with another door in the opposite corner. He arrives in time to see the Martian disappearing through that door. Again he follows, down a short corridor that leads to a larger square antechamber with two doors facing one another on opposite walls of the room. The Martian takes the door on the right, which brings them to a third chamber, identical to the one they have just left, but with three doors — one in every wall. If he ever finds his way back to this room, it might prove impossible to know the way out again. The Martian says, “From here, you must walk alone.”

Which is when Borman realizes Holtz has not accompanied them this far. He looks into the eyes of the Martian, trying to get a read on him. “What did you say your name was?”

“Does that matter?”

“To me it does,” says Borman. “I think it might matter to you too.”

He smiles. “My name is Skioth,” he repeats and Borman tries his hardest to commit it to memory. “Now Colonel Borman, you must choose which of these doors you will enter. If you choose wisely, you will find your friend and you will both leave here as free men. You have my word on this. But first, you must choose.”

Which way?

Skioth turns and exits back through the door they entered. Before Borman even has time to raise an objection, the wall shimmers. As if the stone has turned liquid, it snaps together and closes the exit. The air in the chamber vibrates with the force of it. He steps up to the wall and puts his hand up to it. No sign of heat. He touches it — it’s as cold as concrete, and just as hard. He slaps it. No echo. It’s thick and solid.

No other choice but to choose one of the other three doors. He thinks about it for a while, recalling the rooms through which they passed to get here. Had there been clues along the way that might inform his choice? If so, he’s missed them.

For no good reason, he picks the door on the right. It leads him down a much longer, darkening corridor that eventually opens out to an atrium, its ceiling stretching three stories high. In the wall facing him, there is a single line of prison cells cut into the wall. The atrium itself, totally enclosed and roofed in girders of steel, seems to serve no purpose other than to illustrate the fact they are deep underground. From where Borman is standing, it’s as if the cells are under the boot of Mars herself. Feeling a rush of air at his feet, he turns to see the door through which he has just passed is gone. The wall behind him is solid. Once more, there is no going back.

The cells immediately in front of him are empty.

“Donald? Can you hear me?” There’s no answer from Menzel, but two other men step forward from the shadows to show their faces behind the bars of their cells. They mutter in what sounds suspiciously like Russian.

One of them points at him. “Colonel Borman.”

“That’s right. Do we know one another?”

The Russians seem pleased and relieved to see another human face. “Will you tell them to set us free? That we mean them no harm?”

“I don’t know your names.”

The fellow speaking looks over at his comrade, who says, “We are part of the mission. I am Georgy Dobrovolsky and this is my co-pilot, Viktor Patsayev.”

Cosmonauts. He recognizes their names, although he has no memory of them. “Have we met before?”

“What do you remember, Frank Borman?”

“Nothing. What about you two? I guess we flew here together, eh?”

He answers indirectly. “It has long been the Russian goal to come to Mars. To go one step beyond the American space program. The Moon was but a stepping stone for us.”

“It’s easy to say that when you haven’t been there yet.”

Dobrovolsky smiles. “Is that what you think?”

Borman steps back. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve made it to the Moon and we don’t know about it?”

The Russian laughs. “That would be funny, no? If only it were true. Our greatest triumphs were already behind us when Bermuda came to us seeking cooperation. The Russian government had lost appetite for spending such money on space and we had already decided not to fly to the Moon. But when Bermuda suggests flying to Mars… Who could say no to this?”

Patsayev says, “Russian technology always superior to American. This we know already.” The way he says it, the truth of it is undeniable. Borman is reluctantly forced to admit that the reality of all three of them standing here seems to lend weight to his assessment.

Even so, he bristles at the suggestion and is about to open his mouth to speak against it, but finally thinks better of it. If they’re to make it out of here alive, they’ll need to work together. Despite the fact that Bermuda will surely have sent him here to maximize the possibility of belaying Russia’s claim on Martian soil. But none of them will be doing any claiming here. They have nothing to offer the Martians other than disruption.

He still can’t work out why Menzel never told him about their destination, or if he did why that memory remains a blank. He can only assume it was for reasons of security. But strange as all of this seems, finding the Russians here feels like he’s back on familiar ground. This is something he can work with. “Why are you guys locked up?”

Patsayev says, “They tell us Earth is a world of war.”

“Which is true enough,” Borman admits.

Dobrovolsky says, “Mars men say we are not being trusted. They not believe we come peaceful. You must tell, Frank Borman.”

Borman rubs his hand through his hair. “I have, believe me boys, I have. Not sure they believe me either.”

“No secrets,” says Patsayev. “They say: speak truth of why we come here.”

“They want to know Russian technology,” says Dobrovolsky. “They say, ‘tell us how you beat America to build rocket flying to Mars’. We tell. They not believing.”

Patsayev says, “You must tell them how we came here. Together. Tell them Russians good people.”

Borman stifles a laugh to avoid seeming rude. He takes a step back. “Well hey, I’m sure you boys are fine upstanding citizens. But I’m not so sure I’ll be vouching for your overlords in Moscow. Why were you all so eager to come to Mars anyhow?” And why desperate enough to make a deal with Bermuda?

Patsayev backs away from the bars, muttering under his breath. There’s anger in his eyes. He looks like he’s damping down a sudden urge to grab Borman around the throat and choke the life out of him. Clearly, this relationship of theirs has come at a cost to all of them. Yet Borman can’t help feeling at a disadvantage. These guys know more than he does.

“Frank Borman,” Dobrovolsky pleads, “they will kill us. You tell Mars men Russia is not trouble. You tell why America join us to come here. You know the truth.”

The walls of their cells begin to glow and vibrate. The Russians jump back like they know what’s about to happen. Borman takes another step backwards for good measure. The bars turn red hot and start to ooze and expand like lava through a crack in the ground, until the ooze sews itself into one solid glowing metal wall, encasing the Russians and hiding them from view.

As the molten metal starts to cool and solidify, he looks around the atrium for something he might use to knock through it so they might escape. But there’s nothing. And it would be pointless. Where would they go? None of them will be getting out of this maze without Martian cooperation. He walks along the line of cells in the prison block. All of them are locked and empty, but at one end a lone door hangs open. It’s the entrance to another chamber. With nowhere else to go, he passes through it, half expecting to find himself imprisoned.

He finds himself in a small, rectangular room with five doors: two on the right, two straight ahead and one to the left. This time he takes the one on the left. It brings him to a set of stairs that disappear into an inky blackness. He starts descending, holding his hand to the wall for balance in case he loses his footing in the darkness. This time, the walls offer no illumination. As the last strands of light vanish above him, Borman has to actively fight a panicked urge to retreat back up the stairs. He’s well aware the mind game is deliberate, but somehow that doesn’t make it any easier to resist.

The air starts to feel much hotter around him the moment the staircase ends and the walls open into a pitch-black cavity. He inches his way to the left. Following the edge of the wall and holding out his arms, he checks the ground with every step, a blind man trying to cross a busy road. He has no way of knowing what’s here, but there is a hollow hum in the air suggesting he’s in some kind of cave.

“Donald?” he calls, but his words disappear into a black abyss in front of him. He calls louder. “Anyone down here?”

“Over here.” Menzel’s voice. But he can’t tell what direction it came from.

He reaches out with his foot to take another step, but feels no more ground in front of him. Instead he inches forward, still hugging the wall, which starts to curve sharply away. He’s standing on some sort of ledge and he’s right on the brink. A dim yellow light flickers on from somewhere above him, but below his feet is just a black hole. He staggers backwards, worried he’ll lose his balance and fall. “Where are you?”

“Over here.”

Menzel is huddled in a corner on the opposite side of the ledge, curled up in a ball. There’s blood all over his face.

21

The blood is matted through his hair and sprayed down the front of his shirt. His face is a mess of cuts and swollen bruises. He’s huddled like a frightened child and stinks of sweat and fear. He doesn’t move when Borman approaches; he just stares back like he’s in a trance. Borman kneels down beside Menzel and touches him on the face, wiping blood away from his eyes.

“What did they do to you?”

“They don’t care about me. It’s you. If you don’t tell them the plan, they’ll keep hurting me.”

Borman isn’t quite sure how to respond. It occurs to him that Menzel might be trying to talk to him in code. “Did you tell them my memory has been taken from me?”

“They don’t believe it. They think you’re hiding it from them deliberately.”

“And they call themselves mind readers… Heck Donald, you know more about this than me. You’re the one who took my memories away, aren’t you?”

“No. Not me.”

“OK then, but I’m guessing you knew about it in advance.”

Menzel shakes his head.

Borman says, “You’ve got to tell them I’m not hiding anything.”

“They don’t want to hear it from me. They want the truth. From you.”

“Damn it, I don’t know the truth!” Borman screams in frustration.

“Maybe you just don’t want to remember.”

“That we were coming here to confront an advanced civilization? Why would anyone want to forget that?”

Menzel doesn’t answer the question directly. “I’ve told them everything. Now it’s your turn.”

“It’s not every day you get to commit an act of treason in the name of national security,” says Borman. “Is that why you kept it all from me?”

“You’re good at following orders, even if they didn’t come from the Commander in Chief. We knew you’d do what needed to be done.”

That disdain for the president again, just like the day they met in the White House. He tries to wipe blood from the man’s face. “Look Donald, I’m not blaming you for what you all did. Heck, maybe I’d have done the same in your shoes. But I need you to tell me this plan of yours. What needed to be done?”

The scientist just stares back at him, expressionless. Oblivious to the fact that Borman’s running on empty. “Why didn’t you leave here the way you came?” Again, nothing. “Will Bermuda be unhappy with you for spilling the beans?”

Terror fills Menzel’s eyes. But it’s neither Borman nor Bermuda that is frightening him. He’s staring over Borman’s shoulder. Someone else is behind them.

22

Skioth stares down at Menzel, like he has already passed judgment and found the man guilty on all counts. Borman gets to his feet. “You said you’d let us go.”

Skioth almost looks apologetic. “I said I would set you free if you chose the right door. Instead you chose to speak with the Russians, though they were not the ones you had come here to see.” He grabs Borman by the arm, not roughly but with enough force to get his point across. “Please, Colonel, I need you to step back now.” Borman’s feet move without him even consciously being aware of it.

“No!” Menzel yells, not bothering to hide the fear in his voice. The walls of the cavern ripple and shift, wrapping around Menzel like a curtain, entombing him and swallowing his cries. It’s starting to feel like some sort of twisted maze, in which the ground itself is continually shifting. As the wall envelops Menzel, another door opens up beside it. Skioth directs Borman through it. There seems little point in arguing.

Immediately, the atmosphere of doom recedes. This new room is smaller, well-lit and furnished with comfortable chairs, carpeted like someone’s private study. Designed to make him feel at home. They’re playing him. On a table in front of the chairs, there is water in a large mug and a tray of berries. Skioth gently urges Borman to sit down. He points at the food. Borman gulps down the water but doesn’t touch the berries.

“Leave nothing out. I need to know it all,” says Skioth.

“I don’t remember anything. Holtz told me about your power of telepathy — surely you can see I’m telling the truth.”

“This is precisely our problem, Colonel. There are too many things we cannot see. For us, your arrival represents a risk to the Martian people.”

“You think we’re here to invade your world? We don’t have that sort of capability.”

“But given half a chance, you would have the intention. Meaning you and I need to speak freely with one another. And please, for the sake of your friends, you must leave nothing out.”

Borman sighs. “Let’s say for argument’s sake you’re right about us. I’ll admit, the people who sent me here must be looking upon your world with envious eyes — what would it matter? It’s not as if we have the ability to build some grand space armada to stage an invasion. The only way into your world is via the gateway you yourselves created. If you shut that door, it’s all over.”

“Good. Continue.”

Borman tells them everything he remembers. He’s repeating himself, going over old ground. As he talks, he has the strange sensation of also being able to observe himself talking, like he is in a dream and can be in two places at once. Prompted by the sound of his own voice, he uncovers new fragments of thought that flash into his mind. These too, he reveals, as if Skioth is a therapist and he a patient on the couch. Lives are on the line. There’s no point in holding anything back. Trick Stamford is the first person who returns to him. Not words. More like a feeling. The two of them standing side by side, staring at someone — something — in awe. Like he’s seeing it for the first time. He doesn’t remember what it is.

Skioth appears to accept this much at face value.

“What is Bermuda?”

Borman puts names to faces, paints a picture of a group of people running America’s military-industrial complex, with virtually no oversight other than that they place upon themselves.

“Why then did they send you here?”

Again, Borman tells him he has been kept in the dark about Bermuda’s motivation for sending him to Mars. Skioth is far from convinced.

“Let us leave,” says Borman. “I’ll take Donald and we’ll leave your planet and make sure nobody ever comes back.” He looks down at the table and notices the mug is again full of water. The berries look so full and ripe they are almost irresistible. But he knows better than to let a jug of fresh water and a bowl of fresh berries lull him into a false sense of security.

His captor faces him across a table. “Why are you here?” he demands. “You are not working with the Russians. Of this I am certain.”

Borman replies, “Of course I’m working with them — it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“You tell me this because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“No, I’m telling you because it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“To you, nothing makes sense. You cannot even explain to me the means by which you arrived at our doorway.”

“I know the way my leaders think. They want to beat the Russians at any cost. Even if it means working with them in secret.”

Skioth isn’t satisfied. “Then what of the Cosmonauts? What would you have me do with them? I could make them disappear. Would that not suit your purpose?”

“No. Let them go. Let us leave. You have my word, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you’re left alone.”

Skioth breathes loudly, the air leaving his lungs like an illustration of his reluctance. “How are we to trust you when you do not trust one another?”

Borman shrugs and nods slowly in acceptance. “You’re right. Our two nations are afraid of one another. But there are bigger considerations. I think you’ve demonstrated that much, at least.” He chooses his next words carefully and honestly, fearing his contempt for the Soviets will be the thing they use against him. “Those two men have families too. And a leader who values their lives enormously. Let them go.”

Skioth stares at him for an uncomfortably long period of time, trying to decide. “Yet still there is something you won’t tell me.” He waves his arm through the air in a figure eight and a door appears in the wall, as if by his magic hand. Through the door step the two Russians. They appear bewildered, but utterly unsurprised to see Borman again. They barely even look at him.

“Now you will choose. Which one dies and which one lives?”

Borman is aghast. “What? No…”

Skioth rises to his feet. He speaks like a parent, reluctantly but insistently ready to punish a naughty child. “You choose, Frank Borman. Or I will do so for you. Who will die?”

Borman kicks his chair back and stands to meet him. “This is not a choice,” he spits back, “it’s an ultimatum. You do this, the blood is on your hands.” The Russians say nothing, but they know what’s happening. “I’ve told you everything I know,” says Borman. “There is nothing else for me to say. Come on… You don’t want to do this.”

Skioth just stares at him with an unwavering determination. He tips his head sharply to one side and a terrible sound fills the room, giving voice to the rending force of destruction, the sort of noise you’d expect to hear outside the gates of hell. The embodiment of wrongness, of annihilation. The body of Viktor Patsayev stiffens, then emits a flash of white as the life force is sucked from his flesh. He is already dead by the time his skin turns translucent purple. His body dissolves into fine particles, gradually winking out of existence.

Georgy Dobrovolsky stares murderously at Skioth, but remains rooted to the spot, either reluctant or simply unable to move.

Skioth says, “Now you see what I can do.”

“Why?” yells Borman.

“Perhaps I want to start a war.”

“This won’t do it,” says Borman.

“Can you be certain? Your leaders have their fingers poised over the nuclear button and appear eager to use it. It is amazing to us one of you has not already done so.”

“Nobody’s going to start a war over the loss of two men. Not even Cosmonauts.”

“Not even if it is an American astronaut responsible for their deaths?”

“No…”

“Unfortunately for you, Colonel Borman, this is not your biggest problem. Tell me who sent you or decide who dies next — you or Georgy Dobrovolsky.”

There is no fooling Skioth. He will kill them all to get what he wants. But Borman has nothing to give him. Even if he wanted to tell, Borman wouldn’t know where to start. He’s afraid even to open his mouth in objection, lest his next words be the cue for another killing.

Seeing Borman in crisis, the Russian speaks first. “I am not afraid to die.”

This is too much. Borman shakes his head and smiles ruefully, a condemned man reduced to his bare essence. “No, you don’t. Set him free, Skioth. You wanna kill someone else, it’s gonna have to be me.”

Skioth seems to be happy with Borman’s choice. He waves his other arm at the opposite wall and another door opens. Through it appear two other Martians, a male and a female — the same pair who carted Menzel away from the space capsule. They grab Borman by the arms and walk him away. He feels them inside his head, compelling his body to respond. He doesn’t try to struggle. He can’t. He’s happy to surrender, having somehow come out on top in the final moment.

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.

“…and no harm will come to Georgy, I promise.”

“Shit Donald, you know what the Martians are capable of — you can’t promise me a damn thing.” A light appears in front of him. It’s so bright he has to look away.

“It’s going to be OK, Frank.”

“I don’t get it. Yesterday you said we needed to leave. Now you want to stay forever. What have they done to you?” Borman’s eyes are adjusting. The light shifts from white to green. It’s the door Holtz opened to deliver him into this hell hole.

“Go,” says Menzel. “Before Skioth changes his mind.”

“Is that the deal? I go if you stay?”

“No. It’s my choice to stay.”

“He promised me he’d let you go,” says Borman.

“It’s my choice…”

“But what about your family? And your work? Surely Bermuda will come looking for you.”

Menzel smiles and shakes his head. “If there is one thing I can tell you beyond any shadow of a doubt, it’s that they won’t miss me. And they certainly won’t come after me.” He turns and starts walking back underground.

“How do I get home?” Borman asks him.

Menzel says, “That’s up to you.”

Though it jars against his better instincts, Borman isn’t about to chase him. He starts heading toward the light. Holtz is waiting for him in the forest. She seems genuinely happy to see him, although by now the feeling is far from mutual. At that moment, a dark cloud swarms down from the treetops and surrounds her. She immediately looks alarmed. Thousands of small flying insects swirl around her. She frantically waves her arms to bat them away.

“Mosquitoes,” says Borman. “Big ones. Where did they come from?”

She puts her arm around him. “Come on, I’ll get you home.”

It strikes him as a strange word to choose. Nothing about this place even vaguely resembles something he would choose to call home. She touches him on the forehead and he feels himself lapsing into a state of semi-consciousness, like she has given him a powerful sedative. In what feels like no more than an instant, they are standing on the front terrace of her abode. And compared to where he has just been, this does feel something like home. A sanctuary from the horrors hiding out there in the ground under the trees.

Horrors into which she delivered him.

“You left me there.”

“I did what I could to seek your release.”

“I’m pretty sure Donald did that.”

“There is much you don’t understand.”

“Then how about explaining it to me?”

She leads him inside the house. “You have to rest.” She lays him down on a couch of pillows. It’s unbelievably comfortable after being locked in a stone tomb.

“He’ll come for me, won’t he? Skioth?”

“Eventually.”

“And you won’t put up a fight,” Borman realizes.

“Trust works both ways. Try to remember all you have forgotten. It’s the only way to stop him in his tracks. Sleep now. Nothing bad will happen to you while you are here. That much I can promise.”

Somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, he believes her. He’s also too tired to put up more of a struggle.

24

He is floating above her house, staring down at the forest. It’s beautiful, this place. It’s not home. It will never be home, yet a part of him would be happy to remain here forever. At the same time, he feels a rising anger at the people who sent him on this mission, when they must have known all along he would have no way of getting home. Menzel had said it was up to him, which might mean the Martians are capable of helping him if they so choose. If Borman somehow finds the answers to their impossible question — answers Menzel himself must be more than capable of providing.

Though this moment feels as real as any other he has experienced on Mars to this point, he knows he must be dreaming. He focuses his thoughts and finds this allows him to move in any direction. He floats down to the forest floor and stands alongside his capsule. He touches it. To his surprise, he finds it’s only made of paper-thin film. He is able to punch his fingers through the exterior shell. The hatch comes away in his hands when he grabs it. A terrible feeling of dread overcomes him — it’s make-believe. They’ve taken the real one away. But why go to the trouble of replicating it? The more he stares at it, the more obvious it becomes. The capsule’s nose is tilted to one side. It’s crude, this model. It’s starting to collapse under its own weight. The base of the ship, where it meets the ground, is already rotten. It’s soaked up moisture from the ground, which hastened the decay.

Menzel appears through the trees, and Borman wonders if this rendezvous was prearranged. He can’t remember having previously discussed it. But it makes sense they should find one another here.

“It’ll be gone soon,” Menzel tells him. “Better grab your spacesuit. You might need it.”

“I can breathe just fine.”

“Don’t you remember? I gave you the locator, so I’d know where to find you.”

“Is that how you found me?”

“No.”

“Then how?”

“You, Frank. You found me.”

“Yes, but…”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” He starts to walk away. “It’ll be gone soon.”

Borman watches him dissolve.

25

When he opens his eyes, the first light of dawn is visible through the open windows of Holtz’s home. He feels incredibly well rested, like it’s the best sleep he’s had in years. The weight of his predicament is not lost on him as he recalls everything that had gone down the previous day. But he can also remember every moment of his dream visit from Menzel. It’s in his head, as clear as if it had just happened. It’s the strangest feeling, the complete reverse of waking from a dream on Earth. Here the light of a new day seems to bring the dream to life, making it more vivid.

More real.

He has to see for himself. He’s down the stairs and into the trees when he hears Holtz calling out after him. He waves back at her dismissively without bothering to look back.

He starts to run, relishing the fact that the lighter Martian gravity allows him to move with remarkable speed. He’s light on his feet and he starts to run as fast as he can, maintaining the pace without once feeling the need to slow down. In almost no time at all he reaches the area where he last saw the capsule. It’s gone. All that remains is his spacesuit, lying across the indentation on the ground where the capsule had come to rest.

“It is as I suspected.” He turns to find Holtz standing behind him.

“Did Skioth take it?” She shakes her head. “Then who?”

“Mars took it.”

Confused, he looks at her with a growing sense of annoyance. He’s becoming awfully tired of people talking to him in riddles.

She says, “It was never your ship.”

“Of course it was. It’s the same ship I flew to the Moon. The Russians didn’t build it.”

“The spacecraft was your design. But we were the ones who made it. Until now, the possibility had eluded me, but this begins to make more sense now.”

“To you, maybe.”

“The plans for its creation were drawn from your subconscious. It was made by the Monument to meet your requirements.”

“What — in a matter of seconds?”

She nods. “The Monument is the focus of Martian intellect, an extension of our collective memory and knowledge. Everything we are is encapsulated within its walls. It exists simultaneously across two dimensions, yours and ours. As such, it acts as a receiver of all signals emanating from Earth.”

“How you know so much about us…”

“We have been watching for a very long time.”

“You’re saying the Monument just conjured up an Apollo Command/Service Module…”

“Because it saw that this is the ship you could fly, and it was necessary for your arrival on Mars. There were other ways of getting here, but none of them were known to you. This is why our prophecy was not fulfilled to the letter.”

“Where’s it gone now?”

“It no longer exists. It has been consumed by the forest because it is no longer needed.”

“When you say the forest…”

“I mean us. It was absorbed back into the Martian etheric.” She’s talking about the Martian collective unconscious. “This world is one of our creation. We are the forest. We are all things. But we do not create with our hands. We do so with focused intent.”

“So, if you want something bad enough, it just appears.”

“It is not done on a whim. We built the Monument on Phobos, and it embodies all of us. It thinks, behaves, and interprets like a living Martian. Because we knew there would be a day when someone from Earth came to us.”

“Donald came to me last night in my dream. I’ve been remembering things he told me on Earth. Then in my dream, he reminded me about the disc. It’s a locator. I don’t know how it works, it’s this secret technology used by Menzel and his cronies. But it could get me home.”

Holtz nods, but it’s like she’s simply trying to placate him.

“Before I left Earth, he gave me the disc and said it would allow him to find me. Which is strange — because that must mean he didn’t know where I was going either.”

“Perhaps he was merely acknowledging you were the one who didn’t know?”

“I don’t think that’s what he meant. It’s hard to explain, but the context, the inference, is tied up in my memory of that conversation. I don’t think either of us had any idea I would be flying to Mars.”

“What does this mean?”

“Donald didn’t trust Bermuda. But he’s important to them. It doesn’t make sense that they’d keep him in the dark about my mission.”

Holtz says, “Perhaps Bermuda aren’t the ones who sent you to us.”

“Who then?”

“Your memories. They have been taken away to hide the truth from Mars.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You were delivered to us. By somebody who knew of the Monument, and knew it was a gateway into our world. Do you believe Bermuda knew of its existence?”

“Anything’s possible. If the Russians knew.”

Holtz appears unsettled. “The Russians… did not bring you here.”

At that moment, he knows she’s telling the truth, although he has no idea what could have led her to that conclusion.

Behind them, twigs snap somewhere close by in the forest. He turns. There’s nobody there, but he knows someone is coming. He can sense it. He takes in a deep breath. It helps ease the twist in his gut, but he’s all too aware he’s still trying to play a game without knowing the rules. He stares deep into her eyes. “Then who did?”

“We think you were sent here by the Befalyn.”

Borman’s eyes widen. “That’s ridiculous. Now you’re sounding paranoid.” He turns around to see Skioth and Menzel standing at her side. In the company of the Martians, the scientist looks like a little boy. Like their little boy. “Tell him Donald. It’s impossible, right?”

“Maybe not,” says the scientist.

Borman feels a rising stab of anger in his gut. “Well for God’s sake, if you know what’s going on here, please tell me and then we’ll all know.”

Menzel responds quietly and calmly. “Neither of us will be leaving Mars until we fully comprehend the risk faced by the Martian people.”

26

“Who is Ningal?” Menzel asks. “I’ve been trying to work it out. I feel like I should know her, but I just can’t put a face to the name.”

He sounds like he’s trying to be cute. It’s too much for Borman; something inside him snaps. Blind with a bewildered fury, he leaps at the scientist and punches him in the nose. It’s not really a fully formed punch. As an astronaut, he’s dedicated himself to exploring space in peace — it’s been years since he’s taken a swing in anger.

The Martians appear horrified by this sudden move to violence, like this is a side of Borman they have not seen before. Their self-righteousness is not galling as much as it’s hypocritical. Though he knows he’s made a mistake, he is too angry to back down. It’s only Holtz holding him back that stops him throwing a second punch.

“Please Frank Borman, stop now,” she implores.

Menzel touches his nose and his fingers come away bloodied. He seems saddened by the insult, but unconcerned by the blood flowing freely down over his lips and into his mouth. Then he waves his other hand across his face and, as if by the magic hand of a conjurer, the blood disappears. A nice trick they’ve taught him. Somehow, it makes the sight of him even more infuriating to Borman. “You can go straight to hell, Donald. You drag me into this, leave me for dead, then you want to start playing the accuser? I’m not telling you a damn thing.”

“There’s so much going on here you can’t begin to understand, Frank. I’m not the man you think I am.”

“You got that right.”

This is apparently enough for Holtz and Skioth, who push Menzel behind them and close ranks like a pair of bodyguards. Borman looks around, instinctively searching for an exit point. Parxotic and two other Martians — the pair he watched dragging Menzel away into the forest — are stationed at the foot of the stairs leading from Holtz’s abode into the forest. In case he tries to run. But where would he go? The whole damn planet is one giant prison, and his jailers can manipulate matter and space with the wave of a hand.

Holtz repeats the question. “Who is Ningal?” She clearly believes he must know the answer.

Borman smiles ruefully. “I knew I couldn’t trust you. I don’t even think I’m surprised.”

“Skioth is my husband,” she says, “but our tie is severed because of you. Because I need to see you for who you really are, not what we fear you might be.”

Skioth adds, “We need you to tell us the truth. It is our sworn role to protect Mars from all incursion. We value peace above all things, but we will do everything necessary for the protection of the Martian people.”

“You think I’ve been lying to you?”

Holtz shakes her head. “You are telling the truth as you remember it. But the best way to enact a lie is to believe it yourself. And when it comes to believing lies, humanity is the master race.”

Skioth says, “We needed to test the possibility that you possess far greater mental power than we had previously believed and had perhaps masked your true nature from us.”

Borman laughs humorlessly. “Surely your little double agent has told you that’s not the case. I mean, sure, maybe some people on Earth have the mental stamina to mask their innermost thoughts from detection… But it’s not exactly a skill we’ve needed to master in the space program.”

Skioth says, “The Russians have entire facilities devoted to the study of mind control. They have made great progress. We also know America has its own program.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Borman tells him truthfully.

“You believed you were working with the Russians,” says Skioth. “I merely acted on the assumption this belief was correct.”

Borman takes a step toward them. He feels like he has nothing to lose at this point. If they’ve decided to kill him, there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Weren’t you worried, Skioth? Leaving your wife alone with a dangerous visitor?” He turns to Holtz. “Do you know everything your husband has done in pursuit of his cause?”

Her expression remains unchanged. Of course she knows. Martians have no secrets. “Skioth does not fear for me,” she replies. “He knows I am stronger than you.” She means mentally, though Borman has no doubt she would also best him in any physical contest.

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.”

“You’re talking about Vietnam. Something had to be done to halt the spread of communism.”

Menzel’s face sours. “You speak, but you don’t listen. Even the French, the country’s former colonial masters, begged America not to send troops to the war, to stay out of it. You can’t save people by killing them. You burn down villages and kill thousands of innocent people. Better to call them all communist than yourself a murderer.”

“It’s way more complicated than that.”

“With every village you burn, three more rise against you,” Menzel replies. “Still your leaders ignore the voices of reason, telling them they can never win, that you should never have been there to begin with. And never are the people told what your leaders themselves believe. Donald Menzel — the man in whose image you made me — has seen a Top Secret report declaring the main reason persisted with the Vietnam war was to avoid the humiliation of defeat. That, I’m sure you’ll agree, places a very high price on American pride. A price being paid in blood, and one that can never be paid in full.”

There’s a knot in Borman’s chest and he really doesn’t know what to say in response.

“Where America goes,” says Menzel, “death follows. You’ve treated all of Vietnam as your enemy, the bodies of friend and foe alike stacked in piles because you cannot tell them apart. Yet still, you have the arrogance to be shocked as more and more of those people turn against you. This is Vietnam’s own war of independence and they have been fighting for a hundred years. But God is on your side… and the little yellow man must be made to see his place.”

Skioth says, “This year of yours that just passed, 1968 — tens of thousands killed in the Tet offensive.”

“We won that battle,” says Borman.

“Yes,” says Skioth. “And afterward, your government told the North Vietnamese you want a peace deal. But still you bomb them and still they fight. Your own young people take to the streets to demand a halt to the war… And your police beat them with clubs and kick them to the ground.”

“The great man of peace, Martin Luther King,” says Menzel, “—shot dead because of the color of his skin.”

Borman puts his head in his hands. “I’m a pilot. An engineer. What do you want me to tell you?” If they are expecting a verbal defense of US foreign and domestic policy, they picked the wrong guy. He knows in his heart America should never have become bogged down in Vietnam. The entire war is one colossal mistake, impossible to defend at home, let alone to the people of another world.

“Enough,” Holtz declares. Borman feels her hand on his arm and looks up at her in despair.

“You’re right,” Borman finally tells them. “Is that what you want to hear? You’re right. About all of it.”

“Donald Menzel is angry,” says Holtz. “Also confused. Like you, his memories are jumbled — because he is a product of your mind. Many conflicting emotions and ideas battle inside his head for supremacy. He is from Earth, yet he has never been to your world. It is Martian blood coursing through his veins, and he sees us as we are now, not as we were. Long ago, we chose to walk a different path for our own survival.”

Borman asks her, “Are you saying there used to be wars between your people?”

“Many wars, much killing,” she admits. “This is the inevitable consequence of the growth of civilizations. But it was only when facing a war threatening the very existence of our species that we finally realized peace required a fundamental change within us. We had to vanquish all fear of ‘the other.’ Only by the unification of the Martian mind are we still here with you today.”

Menzel says, “Which, Frank old boy, brings us to the fundamental issue. Your ongoing presence is a problem, on many levels. We have to know why you’re here. We need to make you remember.”

“How is it you know so much?” Borman asks him. “If I brought you to life from my imagination, you should be nothing more than a vague caricature. The Menzel back on Earth, I don’t know him well at all. Yet you have his memories, his knowledge. You didn’t get that from me.”

Menzel frowns. Finally, he defers to Holtz. “I hardly know where to start, could you?”

Holtz says, “When humans interact, though you’re not aware of it, your minds meet on many levels. There is a connection at a fundamental junction point at the place you call the collective unconscious. It is from here this version of Donald Menzel was drawn, partly by you and in part by our world, which strives toward the perfect creation of all things. But he is likewise afflicted by your selective memory. He cannot recall what you yourself do not remember.”

Borman scratches his head. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Skioth says, “Martians have always known humans would arrive here, that you would answer our call  — as strongly as we knew our enemy must never be allowed to do so. The orbiting Monument was created as a beacon for the people of Earth when they were ready. But to the Befalyn, it is a call to death. They have tried to enter the portal, as we knew they must. Each time, they have failed.”

“That beacon,” says Menzel, “is also an antenna. Every TV broadcast, every signal transmitted from Earth gets drawn right in and analyzed by teams of people in the Martian capital.”

Borman tries to imagine what the folks back home would make of that little newsflash. But bizarrely, he also has a dim recollection of hearing similar words before.

“The same pictures beamed to all of America have travelled through space to us,” says Skioth. “Mars has watched the debates, heard the impassioned cries for peace that fell upon deaf ears as your president kept sending more and more men to their deaths, condemning the millions of Vietnamese who haven’t died to lives of horror and desperation, knowing all the while it was in vain. We, of all people, know that when one American comes, others may quickly follow.”

Borman gets it now. There’s no arguing against that sort of logic. If he tries, his words will sound hollow. “It’s quite something, that beacon of yours. I can’t help wondering though… If the Befalyn are as terrible as you say, why haven’t they destroyed it out of sheer frustration?”

A sly grimace flickers across Skioth’s face. “We too have pondered this. It was always a risk, but we have always believed they would leave the portal intact because they place a high value upon this world of ours and it is the only point of entry. They value this Mars even more than the one they destroyed.”

Holtz says, “It is they who brought you to us, we are certain of that now. You did not come here alone, nor with any Russian assistance.”

Borman shakes his head. “If that’s true, I remember none of it.”

She says, “Humans have an odd relationship with the truth. You value it, yet at the same time you hide from it.”

Menzel says, “The Befalyn have visited Earth. They’re still visiting Earth. Our name for them is the Anunnaki. But they don’t call themselves that. They call themselves the Ryl.”

Hearing those two names spoken aloud triggers something buried deep in Borman’s subconscious. He rises to his feet, seeing the alien ship and himself standing before it, ready to enter. The memory sets the room spinning. Anunnaki and Ryl reverberate inside his head, like they’re bouncing around in an echo chamber, until finally the door to all his memories swings open.

Events begin to fall into place. Fragments and half-formed ideas take shape around one another. Synaptic sparks arise from the deepest recesses of his subconscious. Ideas and sensations, kept hidden from one another, unite and coalesce and gather force, until the events of his recent past return in a flood for the first time since his arrival on Mars. He starts shaking, both from the pleasure of sudden realization and from the electric convulsion of the shock to his senses. It’s too much to process at once. Dimly, he hears sounds leaving Menzel’s mouth. He grabs Borman by the arm. His lips are moving, but Borman can’t hear what he’s saying. Memories wash over him in waves, like a recurring nightmare long forgotten, revealing itself in full horrific Technicolor and finally making sense.

It started that day at the White House. The photographs. The one Borman himself took on the far side. But there was also another.

A photo of Apollo 8, taken by someone else.

A copy of it hand-delivered to Donald Menzel by an emissary of the Ryl living on Earth.

On the back of that photo, a time and a set of coordinates.

An invitation.

28

March 1

Trick Stamford is soaking up the sun on the tarmac at Edwards Air Force Base. “It’s good to be back, Frank. I never thought I’d say that. Of course, back then I couldn’t see the big picture.” He’d entered the Air Force at the behest of his father, a multi-millionaire aviation investor who pulled strings to get Trick into the test pilot program.

Borman had never liked him in those days. He was spoiled and arrogant, someone who didn’t care about anyone other than himself. Not altogether uncommon among test pilots, except that Stamford had demonstrated a repeated problem with following orders. That made him dangerous. But the fellow standing before him now is like a new and improved model. He seems to possess a calmness and a steely reserve that was never on display back in the old days.

This whole side of the air base has been cleared of all air force and civilian personnel. Nobody is getting in without a security clearance. In front of the empty Aero Club, men in black overalls are assembling a small staging area hidden from aerial observation by a high-pitched tent canopy, which lends it the appearance of an open-air circus. A truck pulls up and two crates are pulled off with a forklift. The crates are stamped PPB.

“What’s that mean?” asks Borman, pointing at the boxes.

“Project Papa Bear,” says Stamford. “Wow, they didn’t tell you much at all, did they? I’m starting to wonder if you should be here, Frank.” Borman is less than amused. He didn’t fly half way across the country to trade jibes with a fool. “Relax,” says Stamford, “I’m just winding you up.”

Mission accomplished. Borman watches as the walls of the crates are taken apart, revealing two massive chairs. His feet wouldn’t even reach the floor on a chair that large. Who are they expecting, Goldilocks and the three bears? The chairs are made of stainless steel, meaning they’re both strong and incredibly heavy. The forklift shifts them one at a time into the focal point of the staging area at one end of a large trestle table.

“How about we head inside?” Stamford suggests. “There’s a few things I need to say that are best not overheard.” He leads the way, and Borman follows. They have the Aero Club to themselves. Borman wonders if anybody at Edwards has any idea about what’s happening here. Officially, it’s a private function for senior figures in military intelligence. Some strange no-questions-asked celebration for the higher ranks.

Borman and Stamford know better.

“Look Frank, we need to work together. You don’t have to like it, but that’s the way it is.”

“Work together doing what? Nobody’s told me why I’m here.”

“Are you kidding? This is all because of you. You stirred the hornet’s nest with your lunar flyby.”

Borman says, “We’re about to send a whole lot more people up to the Moon. Donald Menzel tells me the Anunnaki aren’t dangerous, and now you’re talking about hornet’s nests. Which is it?”

“The Anunnaki are a smug and superior race. Up to this point, they haven’t shown themselves to be any sort of threat to humanity. That is, not until Apollo 8 flew right over their secret hideout on the far side of the Moon.”

It feels galling in the extreme to be taking advice from Stamford, of all people. He’s the last person in the world Borman felt should be telling him anything. Then again, pandering to the man’s ego might just get him saying more than he should. “You saying they’re dangerous?”

Stamford is clearly pleased to be the one in the know. “This is all unprecedented, Frank. This is the first time in human history we’ve ventured off the Earth and out to another world. We’re in new territory.”

“How much do you know about them?”

“Not a lot. But they’ve been around on Earth a long time. And I mean a looong time, boy.”

“Someone from NASA should be at this meeting.”

“You are that someone. It’s why you’re here.”

“We need to know if it’s safe to send men out there,” Borman demands.

“You’re the man they saw out there. And you’re impressive enough to command their respect. Which is not won easily, I’m told.”

“You’ve never seen them before?”

“This is a first for me too.”

Great. They sent the A team.

29

Years in the astronaut program had, if nothing else, taught Frank Borman the art of patience. Working with experimental rocketry and world-first technology requires testing and retesting. It’s a matter of learning from mistakes, and there are always a lot of those. Moments of excitement are heavily outnumbered by hours of mind-numbing tedium.

Such is the case that day at Edwards. And despite Borman’s misgivings about Trick Stamford, Borman eventually finds a certain comfort in their prior connection. Facing the prospect of hours with nothing to do, he finds himself talking about his personal life. It’s cathartic to be able to talk to someone about this stuff, knowing he can never bring it up with Susan.

Plus talking is just the best way to relieve the boredom.

“We think they’ll come at night,” says Stamford.

“So why are we here so early?”

“In case they come early. They won’t… but we’re here if they do.”

“Lucky us,” says Borman.

“So… Tell me what it’s like to be an astronaut. Is it the coolest thing ever? I bet it is. I bet the ladies love it too, am I right?”

Borman smiles awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know about that.”

“No,” Stamford, concedes, “You’re a good family man. Something I always admired about you. But I have heard some stories, about the other guys I mean.”

Borman’s not biting that bullet. “Being an astronaut is, well it’s every kid’s dream come true, if you can take the long hours and the physical exertion. Not everybody’s cut out for it. You need nerves of steel. You get hours of toe-curling tedium — just like this, sitting around waiting. Even in space, flying to the Moon, it seems strange to say it now, but there were moments I was bored out of my skull.

“You have those incredible moments through take off and orbit and, y’know, ‘you’re go for TLI’ and off we shoot to the Moon. But we were three days getting there. That’s a long bus ride with you and two other guys crammed into a capsule the size of a phone booth. Plus, I was sick as a dog most of the way there. Zero gravity sickness. But you push through it because you have these moments when you think, ‘wow, I’m really doing this… I’m going to the Moon.’ I suppose you’re never really bored, because you’re always trying to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

“Like Apollo 1.”

“Yeah,” he says distantly, “like that.”

“You ever worry about dying?”

“Of course, but you put it out of your head. You have to, or you won’t get the job done. But after I came back from the Moon, my wife Susan, she said she was sure she’d never see me again. She was convinced I’d die out there.”

“Still she let you go.”

“Yeah. I dunno, I guess that makes her even crazier than me.”

“It makes her a special lady. You were high school sweethearts, weren’t you? What girl from Tucson wouldn’t want to marry the quarterback? Then you go and become an astronaut. You’re an all-American hero, Frank.”

“Let’s just say it’s not easy being married to a spaceman. What about you? Wife? Kids?”

“Nah. Divorced. She didn’t like me drinking. Didn’t like it when she told me to stop and I kept doing it anyway. I’ve calmed down now, though. Realized I was headed for an early grave if I didn’t. Dad eventually got through to me, gave me something to live for.”

“It’s important to listen to family sometimes.”

“What would you have said to Susan if she’d asked you not to fly to the Moon?”

Borman thinks about it. “I’d have gone anyway. She knew that, too. Why she didn’t ask, I guess.”

“She coped as best she could. Like the other wives. They stick together, don’t they?”

Borman says, “Through thick and thin.”

“How is she now? Still got her problems?”

He’s crossed a line now. Borman turns on him. “That’s none of your damn business.”

30

Donald Menzel is with him in the silent darkness of midnight when the visitors arrive. By this time, the ranks of the arrival party have swelled to include Trick Stamford’s father Garrick, Colonel Wade Fallon from defense intelligence and — at Menzel’s behest — retired Rear Admiral Roscoe Hillenkoetter, the first director of the CIA after World War II.

Back in 1960, Hillenkoetter infamously went public in the New York Times with a call for congressional hearings to examine the “truth” about unidentified flying objects. In so doing, he broke ranks with Menzel and MJ-12 — the unit set up by President Truman to bury everything connected to alien visitation. Yet he’s here at Menzel’s invitation, the dissident brought back into the fold — a man of integrity and experience in such matters. But more importantly, one more man Menzel knows he can trust to speak the truth as a witness, if called upon.

Lord knows Colonel Fallon couldn’t be relied upon to speak openly to anyone. But in light of their previous association, Borman takes Fallon aside in the hope of smoothing things over with the man. “I thought you’d be trying to film all of this, Colonel. But I don’t see any cameras.”

“No point,” Fallon tells him. “The visitors don’t allow it. Last time we tried, the film was just black. Overexposed. Same with TV cameras. They’ve got some sort of electro-magnetic field that protects them from it. Which is why we’ve been so interested in the photo you took. The fact they allowed it to be taken at all seems like a good sign.”

“Yeah, about that,” says Borman. “We’re OK, aren’t we?”

“You’re asking if I’m OK about being lied to?” Fallon replies.

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.”

“Relax Borman, you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t moved on. You’ve gotta understand, there’s nothing we won’t find out. When you try to outplay us, you lose.”

The arrival happens so quickly it catches everyone off-guard. One moment the tarmac in front of them is open and empty, the next their ship jumps into a landing position as if materializing from thin air. Its appearance is punctuated only by a momentary blast of air, like the start of an explosion that is snuffed out before it can do damage. The laws of aerodynamics say all that air displacement can’t happen silently, yet there is no sound. The shockwave of their high-velocity landing is somehow absorbed.

The ship pulses brightly three times then goes dark.

Borman whispers at Menzel, “Aren’t you worried the Admiral here will go to the press?”

Menzel shakes his head, unmoved. “An alien ship landing at Edwards Air Force Base? Even if he found a newspaper to print it, we’d make sure he came off sounding like a kook. Nobody would believe it.”

“I barely believe it myself and I’m staring at it. You really do have those newspapers in your pocket, don’t you?”

“One thing I forgot to mention,” says Menzel hurriedly. “Don’t call these folks the Anunnaki. That’s our name for them. They call themselves the Ryl.”

The ship is just like the one Borman photographed on the far side of the Moon. He finds it more than a little unsettling to see it here before him in this secret science show, undermining everything he thought he knew. He can feel their presence like an electrical static in the atmosphere. The air is alive with it.

There are two of them… giants at least ten feet tall. Both wear what look to be dark purple robes, like priests. The fabric of the robes throws back ambient light in rainbow hues, like reflections from an oil slick. As they walk forward, their robes somehow evaporate as if they had merely been a mirage, or perhaps an affectation of rank the visitors now wish to ceremoniously shed for their time on Earth. It leaves the Ryl garbed in simple, figure-hugging black flight suits.

Other than their sheer size, they look human in every way. Borman is immediately reminded of the tale of David and Goliath. They have no escort. Perhaps they have security staff remaining inside their ship. Either way, they appear untroubled by any possible risk to their personal safety. Borman wonders at the weaponry that might afford them such confidence.

Menzel leans in to whisper, “I’ve met these two before. They’re royalty. You should feel honored.”

Where had the doctor met them before? Borman wonders what else Menzel isn’t telling him.

The human delegation bows to their visitors, who in turn offer what might be called a curt bow of acknowledgement. Borman realizes then it is the politics of this moment that imbues the Ryl with such confidence. Once they were honored on Earth as gods, but when the humans eventually lost their faith in the ‘Anunnaki’, so the Ryl lost their power to compel. They might have chosen to wipe out their human subjects, but they did not.

Now the stakes are entirely different for both sides.

Their names are Ningal and Utu (woman and man) and they carry themselves with a distinct air of superiority. They are well used to commanding respect and awe. They acknowledge Menzel’s welcoming words in silence. While apparently able to converse in English, they are slow to speak. They gaze down upon those present, as if merely by being here they are demeaning themselves.

Ningal’s hair is long and black, pulled back into a ponytail that runs most of the way down her back. It’s strapped to her suit, presumably to avoid it becoming a hazard. Over their flight suits, each of them wears a black waist belt adorned with what looks like small cylinders. Small tubes barely thicker than a human hair run from their belts to their mouths, presumably some sort of breathing apparatus.

They move slowly over the ground between their ship and the conference area. Borman figures the Earth’s gravity must be a struggle for them, if they have become accustomed to living on the surface of the Moon. They take their seats in the conference area arranged by Menzel’s people, looking like a pair of oversized adults forced to sit at the children’s table.

Ningal is first to speak. She looks straight at Borman. “I see you,” she tells him.

“I see you too,” he replies, somewhat puzzled by the greeting.

“It was my ship you photographed,” she explains. “The reason we are here tonight.” She appears to be struggling for breath. She grabs the jug of water on the table and downs the water in one gulp. “It is many years since I returned to Earth. I find it weighs heavy.”

Utu lifts his head and turns toward her, touching her arm. “Rest sister.” He slowly returns his attention to the assembly. “We wish to speak of your intention to land upon the Moon.”

Everyone turns instinctively to Borman, as if this whole Moon landing caper had been his idea. Obviously, it falls on him to respond at this point. He asks, “What would you like to know?”

“We wish to reach an understanding,” says Ningal. “There is territory on the Moon that belongs to us. We ask—”

“We demand…” says Utu.

His sister tilts her head slightly and pauses a moment to rise above her brother’s rudeness. “We ask for your assurance that we will be left alone.”

Borman is so relieved he can’t help smiling. Utu frowns. “Is this your response?” he demands angrily. “Would you prefer we blow your spacecraft to dust?”

The threat wipes the smile from Borman’s face. “No, I’m sorry, it’s just that…” He throws his hands up in surrender to avoid digging a deeper hole. Diplomacy is not his strong suit. “Let me explain. Your base is at the bottom of a lunar crater in the northern hemisphere of the lunar far side. It’s not visible from Earth. Am I right about that?”

Utu nods slowly in assent.

“We, that is, the American space program, have no intention of landing on the far side. It’s way too dangerous for us. We would have no contact with Earth if something went wrong. Where we touch down on the surface will be, I’d estimate, four to five thousand miles away from your home.”

“This is good,” Utu tells them.

“Lunar landing missions,” Borman continues, “will need to be in contact with Earth at all times. You can rest assured we won’t be coming anywhere near you, except from orbit.”

Utu nods, but does not appear entirely satisfied. “Perhaps not in your lifetime, Frank Borman. The future, however, shall remain an open book.”

Menzel cuts in at this point to say, “It is we who are an open book to you, Utu.”

Borman admits, “We do eventually plan to build a Moon base, but that’s a long way off. A long way off.”

Menzel says, “With Nixon in the White House, it may never happen.”

“We haven’t even made it to the surface yet,” Borman points out.

“But you will,” says Ningal, looking up at him. “I see it in your eyes, Frank Borman, the determination that drives you. I see your confidence.” Her eyes are gleaming. Her gaze is both intense and hypnotic.

Borman smiles shyly. “And I see yours.”

Utu says, “But you have something you want from for us, do you not?”

Fallon speaks for the first time. “We would seek the same assurance from you. Namely that you will not make your presence felt to any further manned lunar missions. Otherwise we cannot guarantee your existence remains a secret.”

She says, “On this we can agree.”

Emboldened, Borman takes a chance. “Please… would you allow me to see the inside of your ship?”

Trick puts his hand on Borman’s arm and whispers, “Careful now, old buddy.”

Coming from Trick, the note of caution is almost comical. Besides, the opportunity is simply too tempting. Who knows what technological wonders are inside? “I will understand if you refuse.”

Indeed, Utu refuses immediately. “No human has ever set foot inside a Ryl flying ship.” His tone suggests he’s worried they’ll infest the Ryl ship like rats.

However, Ningal demurs. “Frank Borman is no ordinary human being, brother. He has shown himself as a man of vision and courage. And I respect his audacity in daring to ask the question.” Damn it if she isn’t flirting with him. “I will show you and you alone,” she declares. “You have earned that right.” Utu looks far from pleased, whispering his reticence in her ear none too subtly. Yet he seems unwilling or unable to openly challenge her. She rejects his concerns. Her decision stands.

Fallon looks at Borman and mutters, “I hope you have a photographic memory.”

Ningal rises slowly to her feet. Utu stays seated with the rest of the human delegation, as his sister and Borman walk out of the tent and up to the Ryl spaceship. She waits while he walks all the around the ship’s circular hull.

The shape of the craft appears to pay no heed to aerodynamics. There is no suggestion of a leading edge or anything that could create aerial lift. He can’t begin to imagine the science on which its propulsion system is based. Up close, the ship’s skin gives off a dull glow like it’s super-heated. He returns to her with a list of questions and an expression of wonder on his face that makes her smile. He points to the hull and asks, “Is it safe to touch?”

She puts her hand on the hull. “Quite safe.”

He does likewise. It feels warm to touch, but not hot. He can feel a gentle pulsing vibration. He says, “It’s as if it has a heartbeat.”

“In a way, it does. The ship is self-aware.”

“Are you saying the ship is alive?”

“That it operates with its own level of consciousness, yes.”

“Incredible.”

“Oh, that is just the beginning. Inside, you will not believe it. The interior does not accord with the exterior.”

“Like the ship in Dr Who.” She looks at him oddly. “It’s a British TV show.”

She says, “See for yourself. But I must warn you — the ship security system will not allow you to remember it.” He stares at her blankly. How would that even work? She smiles. “I see you don’t believe me.”

“It’s not a matter of belief. I’m a test pilot and a lecturer in aeronautical engineering. And I have no idea how any of this is possible.”

“Our ship’s interior exists in a multi-dimensional state of flux. The inside is on a different dimensional plane from the outside. The interaction between the two states is the force that propels it.”

Borman has no words for what he’s feeling.

“You have been warned. Would you still like to see inside?”

He shakes his head in wonder. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

A door appears in the ship’s hull. She leads the way. He hears himself saying, “I can feel you.” It’s the last thing he remembers.

31

Borman is momentarily disoriented, like he’s waking out of anesthetic-induced unconsciousness. He has a sense that something has happened. Time has passed. He’s outside the Ryl ship again, standing in the same place he had stood before entering. Ningal is beside him. “Did I go in?” he asks.

“I did tell you that you wouldn’t remember. But I guess you forgot.”

Borman feels like the kid who lost all his candy. “Why take me in there if I can’t remember?”

“It was your wish. I want us to trust one another. I wish to be honest with you and hope you will pay me the same honor.”

“How can I know?”

She touches the top of his head, running her fingers across his short-cropped hair in an intimate gesture that for most women would be more than a little suggestive. He senses she has no such intention. Surprisingly, he’s also slightly abashed to note a certain feeling of disappointment. In defiance of all logic, her touch is incredibly alluring. Even in admitting this much to himself, he can see the absurdity of it. Yet he can’t stop himself — he reaches up to touch her face. Her skin is almost translucent but also bright, as if she too is lit from within.

She says, “I want to take you into space.” The way she says it almost sounds euphemistic. Borman doesn’t know how to respond. He’s immediately conflicted, flattering though the invitation may be. Taking flight on this ship would be an incredible experience, unforgettable if not for the fact that he would likely remember none of it. But there is Susan to consider. If he accepts, he knows Menzel will insist he keeps it secret and how can he do that? He promised her Apollo 8 was his last. If he goes now, OK, maybe she’d never know. But what if he never came back?

He asks Ningal, “Will you consider sharing your technology with us?”

“No,” she says flatly. “We would pay a terrible price for that.”

Borman doesn’t know what she means, but he isn’t about to cede his position of influence so easily. “Dr Menzel already has so much off-world technology at his fingertips. If you didn’t give it to him, who did?”

“There are those among us who choose to… ignore the rules.”

“Whose rules? Your rules?”

“Some of our kind live permanently on Earth in exile. It is through them these secrets were revealed.”

“Sounds to me like we’ll find out eventually, either way. So why not share openly?”

“Are you ready to reveal our presence to the world?”

“I, uh… I guess that’s not my decision to make.”

“Dr Menzel has been following a trail of crumbs. None of the knowledge and science possessed by Bermuda and the Verus Foundation comes close to what is inside this ship.”

While it doesn’t seem to Borman as if he has been gone for any time at all, he is greeted with awestruck expressions upon their return. Trick Stamford walks out to meet them on the tarmac. He smiles at Borman, eyebrows raised expectantly. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, buddy.” Borman says nothing, just keeps walking. “Come on Frank, throw me a bone.”

Borman ignores him. In truth, he doesn’t know what he’s going to tell them. Inside the tent, Menzel, Fallon and Hillenkoetter are clearly bursting with questions, although nobody says a word. Utu is still seated on his dais, like a world-weary king marooned in the company of morons. Borman checks his watch. It’s only been fifteen minutes since he left. If feels like they’ve had a tense time waiting for his return.

Ningal takes a seat at her brother’s side. “Frank Borman will join us in flight,” she announces. There is a general murmur of shock. Utu’s face darkens in contempt at the suggestion, but Ningal is merely amused by her brother’s response — like it is no more than she expected. She whispers something in his ear. He looks at her sharply and finally nods.

Menzel asks, “Where do you propose to take him?”

“This I shall not say.”

Perhaps because she hasn’t yet decided, although in his bones Borman feels certain none of this is accidental.

“Can I just ask that you don’t take him to the Moon?” Menzel suggests coyly. “All this money we’re spending on the space program — I’d never hear the end of it.”

Fallon grunts in agreement.

“The first human to walk on the Moon shall not do so at the hands of the Ryl,” says Ningal. “This is an achievement for you alone, and we would not wish to intervene.”

Menzel grins. “This is very good news. Thank you. Thank you.” He glances in Borman’s direction. “I guess that’s a green light for Apollo 11 then.”

“Yeah. I guess it is,” Borman agrees.

Ningal says, “I will return to you on this day, after the passage of one lunar month, at a landing site of my choosing. Be ready for me, Frank Borman. And be sure to bring a space suit.”

She helps her brother to his feet. Utu appears reluctant to accept her assistance, but is finally forced to take her arm. Without doubt, she is the older and stronger of the pair. They step slowly in unison toward their ship in a ritualistic procession and enter without looking back. There is no wave, no kind word of farewell. Perhaps this is because the visit has been taxing, but Borman suspects it’s because their visitors see no point in wasting courtesy on mere mortals. To a man, the human assembly maintains silence. It’s like everyone is in a trance watching the final moments of the event unfold.

The Ryl ship disappears as instantly and unexpectedly as it arrived. There is a muffled thud under their feet and then all is quiet. One moment it is there, the next it’s as if they imagined the whole thing.

32

March 2

Donald Menzel has called this special meeting of Bermuda, but he clearly doesn’t want to be here. Borman sees it in his eyes. Hears the ever so subtle hesitation when he speaks, the way he chooses each word like his life might depend on it. The sense of power and authority radiating from the obscured faces around this table is so palpable it’s enough to make anyone’s toes tingle — like they’re all standing on a cliff edge and these people have the power to decide whether you fall or fly.

Even if they offered to introduce themselves, Borman would be hard-pressed remembering names. But nobody here cares about social niceties. Indeed, everyone other than Garrick Stamford appears happy to remain silent and anonymous, happy to let the old man do the talking. For his part, Stamford appears determined to put Menzel and Borman off their guard, like this is his own personal board of inquiry. He stares at Borman now with cold, dead eyes, every word calculated to offend.

“It seems unbelievably convenient, wouldn’t you say Colonel Borman, that you would have no memory whatsoever of events that took place inside the Anunnaki vehicle?”

Menzel touches Borman lightly on the arm to indicate he wants to be the one doing the talking. “Do you think I called this meeting merely so we could lie to your face, Mr Stamford?”

Back at you, pal.

Garrick Stamford smiles wryly and glances momentarily at Trick Stamford, who is moving about uncomfortably in the seat beside his father. “I know all of your tells, Donald. You could never lie to me and hope to get away with it. And I think you know that. But the Colonel here, he’s someone else entirely. I think it’s possible, for instance, that Colonel Borman has decided to take it upon himself to lock his thoughts in a vault in the misbegotten name of national security — failing to understand those of us sitting at this table are the people on the front line.”

Try telling that to the boys on the ground in South Vietnam. Borman is tired. His head is still ringing from the night before and he hasn’t had much sleep; he can’t help himself. “Whatever war it is you think you’re waging inside that fat head of yours, it’s one the Ryl want no part of.” Damn it if Trick Stamford isn’t forced to swallow a laugh. The old man reacts like he’s been poked in the eye. Everyone else stops breathing. But Borman isn’t finished. “You’re damn right, Stamford. If I did know something, you’re the last person I’d tell. But I wouldn’t sit here and deny that I knew it. I’d tell you to mind your own damn business.”

Nobody talks to Garrick Stamford like this. But having quickly overcome his initial surprise, the old man now seems pleased. This is the reaction he’d been hoping to provoke all along. “You’re saying you do know something.”

“No! I’m saying what I saw in there is a total blank. She erased it. I don’t know how she did it, but my memories have gone. Like they were never there. As for your other implication… that I’ve handed over the secrets to the Verus Foundation…”

“To whom you gave your famous photograph,” replies Stamford, “—yes, we know all about that little escapade.”

“The image I captured aboard Apollo 8 is the only thing I have handed over to Dr Menzel. And unless I’m mistaken, you’ve seen that photograph. If, as you suggest, I’ve handed over secret knowledge of the Ryl to Verus, then Dr Menzel here would know all about it. The man who, according to you sir, can’t lie to you convincingly. Well if you think he’s bad at lying… as God is my witness I haven’t told a lie since the age of five. The report in front of you is the unabridged, unembellished truth of what happened that night.”

Garrick Stamford laughs derisively. “Never told a lie, huh? Does your wife know where you are today? Have you handed this report of yours over to NASA? Sent a copy to your pal Nixon?”

“Put me on a polygraph,” says Borman. “Hypnotize me.”

Stamford waves his hand dismissively. “That won’t be necessary. I wasn’t, incidentally, accusing you of lying. Merely of withholding the truth. There is a difference, Colonel, and an important one for men of integrity such as yourself. I mean you no disrespect.” He looks down at the report and says nothing more. People start breathing again.

Trick Stamford pours himself a glass of water and drinks it slowly, eyeballing people one by one around the table like a good little daddy’s boy. Borman wonders if there’s anything Trick wouldn’t do to win his father’s approval.

A man smoking a cigar opposite Borman slaps his hand on the table like a gavel calling the meeting to order. “The question then, as I see it,” he says, “is whether we allow Colonel Borman to take this flight, whether we try to send someone in his place… or whether we reject it out of hand.”

Borman notes Colonel Wade Fallon sitting alongside cigar man. Meaning they must both be military intelligence. He might have spoken up again at that moment, but Menzel gestures ever so slightly with his hand up to halt Borman in his tracks. Menzel says, “The invitation was extended to Colonel Borman. I believe his space flight experience is the thing that interests them. Specifically, his flight around the Moon. Meaning no other man can replace him.”

Cigar man says, “Many of us believe the lunar Anunnaki are not to be trusted.”

As opposed to the men sitting here, who Borman wouldn’t trust to put the trash out.

“There is a tendency among military strategists to mistrust the unknown,” says Menzel.

Colonel Fallon asks, “Colonel Borman, what’s your take? Do you trust them?”

Borman thinks about it. “I don’t know if stripping my memory is their idea of security, or if it’s a side effect of the ship itself. It could be either. Or both. I do remember Ningal told me their ship is alive. It’s self-aware. It has a consciousness. Make of that what you will. But I don’t believe she means me any harm. Three of us in this room witnessed the arrival of that ship. It must have been travelling at something approaching the speed of light and it stopped on a dime. An alien race with that sort of capability could wipe us out and be gone again before we knew what hit us. But this they have not done.”

Voices whisper urgently.

“And that,” cigar man replies, “is precisely what has us so worried.”

33

“Where do we get hold of a spacesuit? You think we just walk into the NASA shop and buy one off the rack?”

Menzel smiles. “That’s a good one, Frank. You’re a funny man.”

But Borman isn’t trying to be funny. They need an Apollo spacesuit like the one Buzz and Neil will wear to the Moon — and they need it quickly. Intention is one thing. Audacity is another. But certain practicalities can’t be avoided when faced with something as unforgiving as the vacuum of space, and Borman is beginning to see the devil at work in the detail.

“Actually,” says Menzel, “walking straight into NASA is what we’re going to do.”

Borman raises his eyebrows. “You don’t mean with that transporter device of yours?” Menzel had used just such a device, a product of alien technology, to take Borman from a cabin inside the USS Yorktown across the Pacific to an underground bunker. It happened in the blink of an eye, like walking through a door. He could no doubt do exactly the same thing to get them inside the Goddard Space Flight Center in Maryland. “Tell me we’re not going to steal a spacesuit.”

Menzel shakes his head. “We go in the normal way. It raises too many eyebrows if somebody happens to see us appearing out of thin air, so we just have to walk through the door like everyone else. You’re worried about your reputation. I understand that, believe me I do.”

It’s more than that. The president asked him to take charge of NASA, and here’s Menzel taking the law into his own hands and — even worse — treating the organization with a considerable amount of contempt by keeping them in the dark about their plans. He’d much prefer to be up front about all of this with Deke and Al Shepard. But Menzel and Bermuda prefer cloak and dagger. He suspects they’re using national security as a convenient smokescreen to protect their own power and autonomy, and there is nobody to challenge them on it. Borman’s a fighter, but he’s not about to throw himself under their tank treads in some futile defense of the moral high ground.

Hence their flight to Washington, where Menzel rented the Black Ford Fairlane now transporting them north along the Baltimore-Washington Parkway to Goddard. The forty-minute drive seems to go slowly. Neither man has much to say, and Borman is still trying to work out what he’ll be saying to his wife about all of this when he sees her face to face in the morning. He hates the idea of keeping her in the dark. He’d be a whole lot happier just telling her the truth, but it wouldn’t be doing her any favors. She’d take it hard, and then worry herself sick about it. Better that he does the worrying for both of them.

Borman looks the other way as Menzel pulls up at the southern gate of the Goddard Space Flight Center. He opted for the G-man look — dark suit and hat with aviator sunglasses — hoping it would be enough of a disguise. Just the same, he keeps his head down as Menzel pulls rank on the guard manning the gate. Borman has been to Goddard many times before. Now more than ever, his face is immediately recognizable to everyone in the space program.

Menzel gets them inside with a minimum of fuss and steers them toward a non-descript building at the rear of the complex. A US Marine is the lone security guard at the front counter, stone-faced and immutable in his determination to carry out his duties as God and country intended. Menzel flashes his ID. There is a flicker of recognition on the man’s face that might almost be trepidation. He turns to Borman, who hands over a fake FBI badge, courtesy of Menzel. He makes no move to remove either his hat or his sunglasses. The Marine checks him out briefly, nods, and hands back the badge.

Menzel asks, “Is my package here?”

“Yes sir. Right this way.” He leads them to a small room, where a spacesuit is laid out on a work bench like a crude museum display.

Menzel glances at Borman. “I requisitioned Colonel Frank Borman’s entire flight suit, along with a few added extras like the helmet and the boots. You need to check it’s all here and in working order.”

Borman runs through a mental checklist, ticking off all the critical components from the inner layers to the outer. “The helmet — this isn’t mi… It doesn’t belong to Borman. Where’d you…?”

“We’re borrowing it from Alan Bean.”

“Does he know?”

Menzel seems amused, but doesn’t answer directly. “I figured it might come in handy.”

Borman says “He’s on the back-up crew for Apollo 9, what if he needs it?”

“In that unlikely event, he can borrow a helmet from one of the prime crew. But that mission’s in tip-top shape, prime crew are raring to go. Bean won’t be coming off the bench.”

“You’d better hope so,” says Borman. “How did you even get your hands on it?”

“I called in a favor or two,” says Menzel.

Persuading some poor NASA technician to commit an act of larceny seems like a whole lot more than a favor, but Borman isn’t going to object at this point. He picks up a pair of heavyset boots, knowing these too are not part of his space kit. More of Alan Bean’s kit? This time he decides not to ask. “It’s all here. And it’ll do the job.”

He’s almost ready for space, bar one crucial component. He still needs a PLSS: the backpack life support system designed for men to walk on the Moon. Because EVAs weren’t part of the mission on Apollo 8; there was never any need for Borman to have a PLSS of his own. He’d used them on the Gemini program, but their spacesuits had been totally redesigned since the Gemini days. The new-generation PLSS is slated for testing on Apollo 9, none of which is much help to him now.

But Ningal had told him to bring a spacesuit, so he needs to be kitted for EVA. Thankfully, Garrick Stamford’s connections had come in handy on that front. As a major shareholder and board member of United Aircraft Corporation — the company designing and building the PLSS units for NASA — Stamford arranged for the fast-track assembly of a special ‘test’ unit. And because corporate America knows how to keep a secret (especially when someone like Stamford demands it) the unit was built and delivered to them, no questions asked. It’s safe inside a packing crate in an Eastern Airlines freight hangar back at Washington Airport.

All that remains now is to put all the pieces together and make sure the darn thing is operational. His life might soon depend on it.

34

He’s leaving again, and all he can tell her is that it’s a special mission for the president. Susan takes the news in silence. Part of him wants her to scream and make a fuss. That would harden his resolve. As it is, he hears himself apologizing, and he almost tells her he wishes things were different. But that would be a lie.

She accepts his apology, and maybe even believes it when he says this time his life won’t be at risk. But he also sees the wheels turning behind her mournful eyes, and she knows something doesn’t quite add up. He’s an astronaut, a public figure known the world over. The space program has demanded a level of public scrutiny that had taken Susan a long way beyond her personal comfort zone. Now, just as she has started to accept that their lives are an open book, her husband slams the book shut in her face.

“What happened to retirement?”

“That’s still happening. Right after this mission.”

“And NASA is OK with this?”

He can’t help smiling at how quickly she finds a question that will get to the heart of the matter. “All NASA knows is I’m on special assignment for the Defense Department. They aren’t being told much about this either.”

Susan is far from satisfied by this. She looks more like she’s about ready to burst into tears. “Secret means dangerous.”

“Nah,” he says, hoping she doesn’t see through the hollow tone in his white lie. “I’ll be back safe and sound in a day or two. You have my personal guarantee of that. Not fifty-fifty… one hundred percent. You hear me? This is a special favor for President Nixon.”

He can hear Garrick Stamford’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears. Invoking the Commander-in-Chief in a top secret fib, and so forcefully does the liar plead to be taken at his word. There is nothing quite so galling as to finally have one’s own hypocrisy laid bare.

He hugs her close and feels her sobbing quietly on his shoulder. He doesn’t dare push it further, fearing the hole he has dug for himself is already way too close to caving in. “I’ll be home soon,” he assures her, and with this at least he thinks he is telling the truth.

“How many times are you going to break my heart, Frank?”

He lifts her face from his shoulder to look her in the eyes. “Never again.”

“You said you couldn’t marry me, remember? Don’t think I’ve forgotten. You said you didn’t have time for me. It was all about your career.”

“I was a kid. And a darn fool. I woke up to myself pretty quick.”

“Are you sure you’re OK with this? Why not talk to Deke, see if someone else can do it?”

Borman had come to believe NASA’s director of flight crew operations could do just about anything he set his mind to. It went without saying that Deke Slayton would go to bat for him if asked. Except as far as Deke is concerned, Borman is on secondment to Eastern Airlines technical chief Benny Schriever, for something that may or may not be defense-related. He’d also given Deke the strong impression this is something he wants to do.

“It’s above Deke’s pay grade. You’re the only person who knows I’m not doing what NASA thinks I’m doing.”

In this much at least, he speaks the truth. But hearing it only makes her frown. “You really won’t tell me?”

He really wants to tell her. The words are almost on his lips, but he finds he can’t say them aloud. Because he’s breaking his solemn promise — he’s going back into space. Even though it feels like an act of betrayal, lying to her by omission is better than telling her the truth. Better for her health. This much he believes, even as he suspects the truth will eat him up inside.

He says, “I convinced you to trust me. To marry me. It took a heck of a long time, but you came around. I’ll always love you for that, sweetheart. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Don’t you dare break my heart, Frank Borman.”

35

March 4

It’s a half-hour drive from the outskirts of Las Cruces through the desert to the White Sands Missile Testing Range. Time to talk. This time Borman has questions. And for once, Menzel is answering everything to the best of his ability. He’s convincing too. Like a good politician, he seems to genuinely believe his own answers. About the importance of secrecy, how people can’t handle the truth.

Borman is buying none of it.

Finally, the car comes to a halt alongside Launch Complex 33. The very place where Wernher von Braun first started working with the US military in reconfiguring German V-2 rockets. One of America’s many morally dubious decisions, and the beginning of their rivalry with the Soviets, who had wanted von Braun for themselves. He was far too valuable to be treated as a war criminal, so they put him to work instead.

The launch complex is deserted now. Lonely and quiet.

Menzel says, “I clued in the range commander to leave us alone.”

“You’re not worried somebody might track their arrival?”

Menzel laughs. “How do you track lightning?”

“Yeah…”

“Have you ever thought how strange it is Adolf Hitler had a hand in getting you to the Moon?”

Borman says, “Von Braun has a hunger for space. I don’t think we’d have made it this far without him.”

Menzel nods. “Sometimes you dance with the one who brung you.”

Borman strips down to his underwear to don the liquid cooling garment. The LCG is effectively a pair of space long johns that comes complete with a system of plastic tubes woven into it to keep the wearer cool inside his spacesuit.

He’s only halfway through getting dressed when Ningal’s ship lands right alongside von Braun’s gantry. He’s donned the suit often enough to know he can get it on in about five minutes, though admittedly he’s never had to do it in the desert leaning against the back of a car. “I hope they’re not on a tight schedule,” he says. “I haven’t got to the hard part yet.” It’s a whole new level of difficulty, trying to avoid filling the damn suit up with sand.

Menzel asks, “Do you have the disc?”

Borman nods and taps a pocket on the suit.

The moon boots are tough to fit over the suit. He needs Menzel’s help to don the life support system. The PLSS is damn heavy in Earth gravity. Before fitting his helmet, Menzel gives him one final order. “You need to remember everything you can this time, Frank. Not for Bermuda, forget those bastards. For me and Verus. We need to record it for science. And for posterity.”

Borman nods. With Menzel’s help, he locks his helmet into place and switches on the life support. He’s relieved to hear the hiss as the suit starts to fill up with oxygen. He pulls down the visor on his helmet and gives his companion a farewell wave. As he starts walking slowly toward the ship, he’s acutely aware of his breathing inside the suit. It’s a struggle to get one foot in front of the other and he feels his heart starting to beat rapidly. It feels more than a little ridiculous, like showing up for a dinner party dressed as a frogman.

The Ryl ship is no more than a few dozen feet away now, and he sees Ningal waiting for him underneath the outer edge of the ship’s hull. She opens her arms as if she’s welcoming him home. He steps into her embrace and she takes hold of him with great affection. It feels remarkably good to see her again.

“It is good to see you again, Frank Borman. Are you ready?” She makes him feel like he’s the only man alive with whom she would deign to spend her time.

He nods. She leads him inside the ship.

36

A remarkably familiar sense of surprise washes over Borman as he steps through the entryway and into the interior of the Ryl spacecraft. Seeing it again is a revelation. At the same time, he remembers everything from his first onboard visit. Thus, he gazes about the ship with a distinct and unsettling sense of déjà vu. He hears a dull thud and remembers this is the outer hatch closing. Meaning they will be airborne within moments. He seems to recall there is no immediate need to strap himself in — by some peculiar quirk of Ryl technology, the ship’s interior is unaffected by the G-forces of the ship’s acceleration. On his first flight, they were in space before he knew they’d left the ground.

“We are airborne,” she confirms. “You can remove your helmet, you don’t need it in here.”

He’s more than happy to do so. For one thing, he can barely hear her above the sound of his own breathing. He snaps open the airtight seal and pulls off his headgear with a hiss as the suit pressure equalizes with the thinner atmosphere of the ship’s interior.

Borman looks around. Almost everything he sees is black. But it’s a nuanced black, sometimes glossy, elsewhere dull and matte — the floor gleaming and mirrored, the walls plush and cross-hatched like a quilted blanket. He takes off his gloves to touch them, and is surprised to find they are warm and leathery like skin. The spacecraft’s surfaces appear feminine… soft and curved, with no hard lines or edges visible anywhere.

He feels like he is standing inside the belly of some massive alien beast. It’s alive, this ship. This much he remembers clearly. It also smells like her. As he comes to this realization, he immediately has the sense he is standing inside her private chamber, a space built for her comfort and ease of travel. And a part of him remembers it is for her alone. Her brother, and whoever else may be aboard with them, travel in separate quarters.

He wants to ask her questions, but at the same time is reluctant to say or do anything that may seem foolish to her. So for the time being, he keeps his mouth shut. Toward the front of the open cabin, there are two deep blue seats — one larger than the other — set behind a plain white panel. They are curved and inviting, like comfortable recliners. He puts his gloves inside his helmet and drops it to the floor beside the smaller of the chairs, then sits down. Its edges curve around his body, moving to the shape of his spine and shoulders. It feels remarkably like being cradled in a massive hand. Ningal takes the seat beside him and he watches as her seat likewise changes shape, hugging the curves of her body.

“No harnesses,” he says, intending it as a question, but then remembering this is indeed the case.

“No,” she concurs. “Not needed.” She smiles patiently. She touches the white panel in front of her; lights and symbols of various colors appear beneath her long fingers as they dance across the ship’s propulsion and navigational interface. A touch-sensitive keypad, minus the keys.

A window appears on the ship’s black interior directly in front of them, a giant display screen so clear and sharp, it’s as if a hole has opened up in the hull. He watches as the Earth gets rapidly smaller, just like when Apollo 8 flew to the Moon… although this time with far greater velocity and acceleration. Yet there is no sense of movement. It’s the strangest thing, knowing he is moving at great speed, but feeling not even the gentlest vibration. The flight chair hardly seems necessary, no more than an affectation. Perhaps it is intended to put him at ease, but it serves no real purpose. All of these things flash through his mind in moments as the Earth becomes smaller and smaller.

“I’ve been thinking about that moment we met,” he says. “Wondering if you and Utu were alone on your ship, or whether you had a platoon of heavily armed soldiers in here poised for action if the talks didn’t go so well.”

She says, “It was just us.”

“But surely you have weapon systems on this ship, right? I mean, you don’t just land at a US airbase without taking some precautions.”

She nods sagely. “We know you better than you know yourselves, Colonel Frank Borman. We also know our presence, indeed our very existence, remains a closely held secret among you. We were familiar with all who attended the meeting, and knew in advance who would be there. Which is not to say we trust their intentions, but we knew enough to feel our safety was not under threat.”

Her avoidance of the weapon question only makes him suspect all the more that the Ryl ship is armed. The Earth finally disappears as they change course and fly across the far side of the Moon, at an altitude of about a hundred miles above the surface. He watches the ship’s progress intently through the window, but is also careful to observe her movements to control the ship. “I thought you said we weren’t going to the Moon?”

Ningal does very little with her hands, that much is obvious. It makes him wonder whether much of the control is mental, even telepathic. Well aware of what he’s doing, she laughs at his bewilderment. “I said we wouldn’t land. But I thought you might like to take a closer look. I could bring you right down close to the surface.”

Tempting as that may be, Borman is superstitious enough to worry that such a joy flight would be bad luck ahead of Neil and Buzz landing in the Sea of Tranquility. “Take me somewhere else,” he urges. “It’s fast, this ship of yours.” He touches the panel himself, but nothing happens. “Exactly how fast can you go?”

She taps something on the panel, then asks, “Do you remember I explained this to you?”

As if triggered by the question, he does remember. “You told me it’s configured to respond only to you.” The panel’s surface is smooth, cold and hard like glass. But when he looks more closely, he sees it is finely pitted, rendering it opaque when not lit from within. A simple and elegant display linked directly to her neural pathways. Triggered by thought and touch alone.

Configured to fly at nine tenths the speed of light.

“Then I will take you to Mars,” she declares, like someone planning a Sunday drive through the countryside. “Mars and Earth will soon be in opposition, so the planet is relatively close to us right now.”

“Relatively,” says Borman. But still about fifty million miles away. “So how long…?”

“To get there? A little over five of your minutes at full speed. But we’ll take things a little more slowly than that. Let us say around fifteen minutes.”

He is still staring at her hands on the panel. “You can control what I remember, can’t you?”

“The ship controls it.”

“Yes, but you control the ship. Like it’s a part of you. It does whatever you tell it to do.”

Ningal smiles. “Yes, you remember what I wish you to remember. Is that of concern to you?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t play around with my memories at all. What would you say to that?”

She reaches out and touches his face. He feels himself almost overcome with a sense of love and affection. Not a sexual love, but the sort of love shared by mothers and sons, one that will survive all things, even life itself. She says, “There is a place I want to show you.” She points to the window and he is stunned to see the red surface of Mars rapidly growing larger, directly in their path.

The ship slows as it approaches orbital distance, but they don’t go into orbit. Instead, Ningal flies them down toward the surface. Even allowing for the thin Martian air, it is by far the smoothest re-entry Borman has ever experienced. In the blink of an eye, they are gliding across the rocky terrain, no more than a hundred feet or so in the air. He stares in awe at the desolate surface. It’s a desert of reddish yellow rocks and dust, not a speck of water to be seen anywhere.

As the landscape ahead changes dramatically, he gasps and points to the window. “My God, look at that.” It’s a massive mountain, taller than anything he has ever seen on Earth.

“It was once a volcano,” she says. “It is almost as large as France and taller than Mount Everest.”

There is a massive escarpment at the foot of the mountain. As they fly closer toward it, a vertical fissure opens up ahead of them. Ningal flies her ship directly inside the fissure. She taps a button on her panel, and its walls are suddenly illuminated by a light from the ship’s hull. They are inside a vast cavern, taking them deep underground as they follow its course. Its walls are smooth, like they have been deliberately reshaped to remove all dangerous extrusions.

“What is this place?”

“You will see.”

They fly on, more slowly now, deeper into the Martian interior and further into a natural light that now seems to be emanating from the very stone walls surrounding them. Then the walls open out into a much broader chamber — the hollowed out main vent of the volcano. From the wall on its far side, a large flat plateau stretches out toward them, a gargantuan hand reaching through the Martian crust.

As the ship approaches slowly, he gets a good look at the plateau and everything built upon it. It is as if a section of the vent wall has been cut and folded out. Built into the vent wall behind it, a massive structure of metal and glass stretches high above their heads. From either side of this, two rows of cranes and gantries line either side of the platform, upon which Ningal gently lands the ship. As it touches down, it triggers lights that turn the chamber from night to day. Nearby, large and empty containers are scattered haphazardly about the floor of the facility, the only sign of disorder. A large rectangular container hangs in the air almost directly above them, seemingly caught halfway in the process of either being loaded or stored away.

“Would you like to go outside and take a look?” she asks.

“Is it safe?”

“Perfectly. This is a Ryl facility. Though we no longer use it, everything remains operational.”

Before he has time to object, the ship’s entry hatch snaps open, seemingly leaving them exposed to whatever atmosphere may or may not exist outside. Ningal adjusts something attached to her belt, and then simply walks toward the door. “You will need that helmet now,” she tells him.

“You built this place? What for?”

“It’s a gold mine.”

“And you’re saying if I step through that door right now, I won’t be able to breathe?”

“The air here is breathable, but only just. The atmospheric generator has been switched off for many years.”

“So why haven’t we lost cabin pressure?”

She points to the hatchway. “The two spaces are incompatible with one another. The interior of this ship does not exist in the world outside, hence it is not subject to the laws of physics that govern it.” He stares at her like she’s talking nonsense. “Imagine we are inside a bubble,” she says. “We can step in and out of the bubble without bursting it, but the inside and the outside of the bubble remain separate from one another.”

“What about you — don’t you need a space suit?”

She smiles. “I’m already wearing it. Mine is magnetic.” She steps through the hatchway and into the Martian chamber.

As soon as his boots leave the ship’s entryway, Borman senses Martian gravity take hold. He instantly feels lighter. There is no sign of life; the facility looks long abandoned. Ningal is already several hundred feet ahead of him, walking toward the rear of the loading bay. She turns, beckons to him to follow, then disappears into the darkness of the giant building embedded in the volcanic wall.

He steps away from the ship, slowly at first, until he realizes he can move great distances with a single step in the lighter gravity. Just outside the building entrance, he stops and looks up. It’s enormous, lit from within all the way to the top. He senses the volcanic vent itself is far taller, but its ceiling is hidden in the total darkness that stretches ominously above his head. Half spooked, he quickly steps inside the building to find Ningal.

She is standing in the center of the building’s pentagonal foyer, a large empty space stretching high above their heads and spanning half the size of a football field. The space is empty but for a red metal circle embedded in the floor. Ningal is standing on top of it, waiting for him. As he reaches her, the disc beneath them begins to rise, lifting them in the air. She grabs his arm firmly just as the speed of their ascent increases, taking them through the structure’s many levels all the way to the top floor, which looks to have been an executive suite of sorts.

Here too the ceiling is high, built to accommodate a race of people far taller than human beings. Large Ryl-sized chairs and tables are scattered about, making Borman feel rather like Goldilocks visiting the home of the three bears. There is dust and dirt in lines along the floor, marking the places where other furniture or equipment had once been standing before the facility was abandoned. As the red disc locks into position, it seals them from the floors below. This triggers lights. An air supply makes a dim hiss as the large room comes back to life.

All the walls are windows, offering them a 360-degree view of the volcanic chamber. Though invisible from the platform below, they are atop a massive volcanic plug. The vent is many times larger than it had first appeared. Lights from the building offer partial illumination to both sides of the vent chamber, just enough to show its sheer enormity. Borman figures the chamber is large enough to house a large part of the US Navy’s Pacific fleet.

She once more adjusts her belt, and then takes a deep breath. “Yes, the air is fine. You can remove your helmet.”

Borman does so, marveling at the idea that he is taking his first breath of air on another world. It tastes thin and dusty, but otherwise perfectly breathable. “How long has this place been abandoned?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I think, perhaps 500 Earth years.”

“But you’ve been here before?”

“I was here when the mine was still operational.”

“You’re joking…”

“Oh, I’m far older than that. Our bodies don’t age like yours. A fault in your design, I’m afraid.” Spoken like an apology of sorts.

“Is the mine exhausted? That why you left?”

She shakes her head. “We thought we would find a reliable source of water if we progressed far enough underground. Alas that much eluded us.”

“But you found gold?”

“A plentiful supply. It lasted us many hundreds of years.”

“Lasted you…?”

“Gold is a critical part of our infrastructure. It powers our propulsion systems and gives us the ability to build small dimensional windows in space, such as that inside my ship.”

“But how could you have known it was down here?”

“The Martian people told us. Long ago — Before the war.”

Borman’s mouth falls open in shock. He hardly knows which question to ask first. But she tells him everything, freely admitting the Ryl were the aggressors. “Mars paid a heavy price for its resistance.”

“Did any of them survive?”

“There are pockets of them still living underground, in chambers such as this, so it is said. Though I’ve never seen them, and I can’t imagine how they could survive here. For their benefit, we have devoted many years on Mars searching for ways to restart the planet’s magnetic field. But it’s like that part of Mars is dead and cannot be resurrected. This was the reason we finally shut down the mine. We decided we no longer had the right to trespass upon the Martian surface.”

“Why did you bring me here?”

She moves closer toward him and gently touches his face. “This is just a shell of a world. But there is another Mars. A paradise the Martians created for themselves. Not here, but in another place, across a dimensional divide. It’s a place I would desire you to visit, though if you do so, it must be alone.”

“What are you suggesting — sending me back in time?”

“Not through time, but through space. From one universe to another.”

“Another…? Holy moly. And you won’t come with me?”

“There is a portal. You may enter, but I cannot. Mars has not forgotten what the Ryl have done, no matter how much we may wish to make amends.”

“I’d be your messenger, is that it?”

She smiles at him. “There is a message I would ask you to deliver. But there is something else I would ask of you most. That your memories of me be kept hidden. To ensure you are received as a visitor from Earth and not a Ryl emissary.”

“They hate you that much?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

Borman doesn’t like the sound of this at all. “What if I refuse to go?”

Ningal’s eyes widen. Tears begin to fall down her face. “There is so much I can teach you, Frank Borman. But if you say no, you and I will never be permitted to see one another again.”

He swallows hard. He resists the urge to take her in his arms. She’s playing him; he knows it. Yet at the same time, the thought of never seeing her again tears him in half. “What are you doing to me? Why do I feel like this?”

“We created you to feel like this,” she says. “To serve us, to adore us. A fault in your design, as it turns out.”

“How so?”

“Your passionate need to serve a god is both your greatest strength and your weakness. It gives you a moral compass, but it’s also what eventually turned you against us.”

“Is that why you don’t live on Earth anymore?”

“Even thousands of years ago, humans were breeding quickly. Within a few hundred years, we were vastly outnumbered. Little by little, there were more of you who dared to question our authority. Eventually, you would have killed us all, as you seek to kill all things you don’t understand.”

“I wonder who we got that from?” Borman asks her.

37

Borman wakes before dawn, and finds Menzel on the terrace staring out at the Martian forest, much as Borman himself had done when he first arrived. It’s still dark enough to see the Milky Way painted across the heavens. As he always does when he looks up, he makes mental note of the planets as distinct from the stars. The brightest must certainly be Jupiter. There are two others. These are most likely Saturn and Earth, but he can’t tell which is which. Yet what is most incredible is that apart from the relative positioning of the planets, the sky itself looks the same as it does from Earth.

“I think that one’s Earth,” says Menzel, pointing, perhaps doing some mind-reading of his own.

Below them, Holtz and Skioth are taking an early morning swim. Their movements are hypnotic, like some sort of water ballet.

“I think we need to find you a name,” says Borman. “A new one. I can’t keep calling you Donald. It’s not who you are.”

“Any suggestions?”

“How about Jiminy, or Jim for short?”

“After Jiminy Cricket or Jim Lovell?”

Borman chuckles. “By my reckoning, you’re a man of two worlds. You’re like a twin. When I thought about that, I remembered Gemini is the star sign for twins.”

“And the NASA program before Apollo.”

“Jim Lovell and I spent two weeks in orbit together on Gemini VII. In a space smaller than the front seat of a Volkswagen beetle. By the end of that flight, we were sharing a toothbrush. We got out on the deck of the carrier after splashdown and the first thing Lovell says to everyone is, ‘We wanna announce our engagement!’” Borman grins at the memory. “It’s in memory of Lovell, but also, sort of, short for Gemini. A Jim is someone I’d trust with my life. I brought you to life, so I think I oughta be the one to give you a name.”

“OK Frank. Just don’t expect me to call you dad.”

“You got a deal,” says Borman, smiling. On Earth, Donald Menzel is old enough to be his father.

The Martian dawn is a mélange of purple that turns gradually to pink and orange as the sun begins to poke its head above the tree line. The sight fills them both with a sense of wonder. There is a melodic humming from down below. Holtz and Skioth are embraced in the water now, staring into each other’s eyes. Their heads disappear below the surface.

Borman points at the water. “Those two OK?”

“It’s their ritual of reunion. The bond between them was severed when you arrived, to ensure there was no chance that you sensed their connection. They had to work independently of one another to determine the nature of the risk posed by your arrival. In Martian terms, that’s like a divorce. It’s been difficult for them both.”

Borman takes in a deep breath. “Let’s hope we can all put the past behind us. My God, this place is magnificent.”

Jim asks, “Does it feel this good to be alive on Earth?”

“It’s different. Back there I’m at home. Here, it’s like every moment is a wonder, every sight and smell is brand new.”

“That’s how I feel here too,” says Jim. “But I also have a sense of familiarity — and that’s the Martian part of me, remembering.”

“I can’t think of the last time I felt like this watching the sunrise back home. It reminds me more of when we were orbiting the Moon, that moment we watched the Earth rise above the lunar horizon. It’s the wonder of seeing something no other human being has seen before.”

Holtz joins them on the terrace, even though Borman hadn’t even been aware of her leaving the water. Together they stare in fascination as the changing sky brings light to the forest, as if the trees themselves are giving off that light.

Borman asks, “Will your husband be joining us?”

“He is preparing for our journey,” says Holtz.

“Is it a long way to travel?”

She nods. Jim says, “I’m looking forward to the journey.”

“It will not take us long,” says Holtz, “but I believe you both will find the trip a pleasurable one.”

Borman takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with pristine wooded air, taking note of the moment and hoping he will always remember it. He says, “The Mars we know on Earth is a barren rock. I’m glad you found a way to survive.”

“The Befalyn had a hand in that too. They helped develop the knowledge that brought us to this dimension.”

“They helped you?”

“We helped each other, though we never really trusted them. A mistake on our part, I believe — though Skioth will certainly disagree with me on that.”

“I didn’t think Martians were allowed to disagree on anything?”

Holtz looks at him in concern. “Our unity of thought is not a matter of permission. For us in most things, it is a matter of consensus. Knowing what most people believe, feeling it inside you, is different to reading it on a page or hearing the words spoken aloud. When you feel the weight of opinions in your chest, such that you can balance one against another, unity becomes inevitable on most matters. But on this subject — the biggest of them all — our views are as many and varied as humanity’s faith in God. It is a topic we tend to avoid discussing. Nobody ever changes their mind.”

“But you can tell me,” say Borman. “I’m an outsider. Give me the version of Martian history as you see it. I’m sure Jim here would like to hear it too.”

She stares at them oddly, and for the first time Borman gets a sense of how strange it must feel to have two aliens standing in her home.

“Very well,” she decides. “A group of elite Martian scientists found a way to create a new space for themselves, in an entirely different dimension. A higher vibrational frequency that exists in the same physical location, but is a different place altogether. It was an advancement that, many years earlier the Befalyn — the Ryl — had a hand in developing. It is similar to the ability to dimensionally fold space-time in order to move from one place to another instantly. But it is not the preferred means of transportation for the Ryl. Some of their people lost their minds by using this process too frequently. Martians, however, suffered no such ill effects.

“Whether it was professional jealousy or sheer bloody-minded frustration, over time the Ryl’s relationship soured with the Martian scientists, who then chose to cut ties between them. This angered the Ryl, who felt they were being betrayed. And as that tension developed, the Ryl showed themselves to be the more belligerent of antagonists. As the enmity rose, so too did their demands for appeasement and reparation.

“The Martians were, in part, compromised by their decision to cut ties. The Ryl demanded they be allowed to live on Mars. When this demand was rejected, they waged a terrible war upon the planet. They sent a terrible rain of fire down upon the surface of our planet.”

“I saw a depiction of that,” says Borman. “At the gateway on Phobos.”

“With their spacecraft and their mastery of antigravity, the Befalyn turned the asteroid belt into a weapon that wrought terrible destruction upon the face of Mars.”

Borman holds up his hands to stop her. “Wait a moment… Tell me more about this antigravity.”

“By manipulating noble metals like gold and palladium into a high-spin state, they alter their properties. By breaking them down into single atomic particles, these metals exhibit properties that allow them to exist simultaneously in two dimensions. The net result of this is that they weigh less than nothing. They are antigravitational. By this same process, the Ryl were able to lift the great blocks of stone with which they built the pyramids at Giza.”

Borman laughs in disbelief. “Come on, now.”

“Do you truly believe Egyptians placed those stone blocks in such precision simply with slave labor and brute force?”

“To be honest, I’ve never thought about it.” One of the great secrets of Earth’s ancient history, revealed almost as an afterthought. “You’re saying this is the force the Ryl used to hurl asteroids at Mars?”

“They began small, with rocks the size of boulders. These had a powerful impact, but the effects were localized. As time passed, when Mars still refused to agree to their terms, the asteroids grew larger.”

Jim shakes his head. “Does any of this sound familiar, Frank?”

“The bombing of North Vietnam is what it sounds like.”

Holtz continues. “Soon our skies turned dark as smoke and dust filled the atmosphere. The air was unbreathable. But then they hit us with something far worse. The weapon they had saved for the end.”

“What could be worse than an asteroid barrage?”

Holtz says, “They shut down the planet’s magnetic field.”

“Ningal admitted as much to me. But how did they do it?”

“I do not know. I do not wish to know. It is not something anyone should know.”

Borman says, “Our astrophysicists tell us Mars lost its magnetic field billions of years ago.”

There are tears in her eyes as she shakes her head slowly. “Not so long.” She looks at him, eyes wide, a fierce determination burning through the remembered pain. “Which is why you must choose your words wisely before the Council of One.”

38

Holtz and Skioth face one another, eyes closed, foreheads touching and hands clasped behind each other’s heads. By this strange mode of meditation, they materialize a unique and unusual craft that will transport Borman and Jim to the Martian capital. It is a remarkable process to watch. A union of two minds clearly makes their telekinesis much more powerful. Borman wonders what might be achieved by a roomful of like-minded Martians all bent on the same purpose.

The aircraft first appears as a white outline, as if drawn in chalk upon the stone floor of the terrace. Holtz holds out her arm, the signal for Borman and Jim to step closer. The four of them huddle together as the ground beneath them changes form and starts to slowly rise, like a pancake on a griddle. It is a large egg-shaped wing, flat on the top where they are standing. With a gentle pop, the craft separates itself from the ground and slowly floats into the air, wobbling momentarily. Borman grabs Holtz by the arm to keep his balance.

As it lifts them slowly into the air, its edges continue to spread like pancake mix poured around the edges of the pan — except now that pan is twenty or thirty feet below them. By the time they are high enough to look down on the hilltop above Holtz’s house, the wing spans maybe fifty feet by forty feet. There is no protection from the elements, no seats nor barriers to prevent them falling.

Jim is grinning like a schoolkid. “This is going to be incredible.”

They are the first foreign tourists in the history of the Martian new world.

Holtz and Skioth are the pilots. They stand in the center of the platform, directing their craft. There are no controls; they steer by focused thought. Borman steps as close to the edge as he dares while they begin to move with increasing speed across the forest treetops. It feels rather like he’s riding a large round surfboard on a current of air. A gentle breeze flows over them from the open sky above, but there is virtually no wind resistance despite their rapid acceleration.

The trees seem to be waving at them. “Wow,” cries Jim. “Look!”

A flock of large blue and red birds rises from the trees. There are thousands of them, surrounding them in moments and somehow matching their pace, flying in crazy zig-zags. They sing loudly, like a bunch of noisy teenagers having the time of their lives. It’s such a remarkable sight Borman is laughing from the joy of it.

Their escort stays with them until they reach the furthest edge of the forest, where the trees meet the sea. Here, the birds part like a curtain, as if releasing them into the wider world. The flock heads back toward the forest, as the Martian aircraft continues its journey over the sea, picking up speed all the while. Eventually, they are so far away from the land they left behind that the sea is all Borman can see in any direction.

An ocean. On Mars. The water is the most beautiful shade of aqua he has ever seen. He has an almost overwhelming desire to dive into its depths. This must be what it was like on Earth before the dawn of mankind, when the entire planet was still pristine. Holtz places a hand on Borman’s back and smiles, and he realizes despite his misgivings he trusts her. He stares down at the surface of the water and sees a multitude of creatures swimming in the depths. Fish like dolphins and seals, and a massive creature, half whale and half crocodile, that breaches out of the water and splashes back down on the surface with incredible force. It’s as if the ocean has been waiting patiently for his attention to turn on a display.

Holtz tells him, “We’re going for a swim now.”

He looks down again. A black cloud rises to the surface of the water. It’s a vast school of fish, at least half a mile across. At its edges, the larger predator fish feast upon the bounty.

“Is it safe?” Borman asks her.

She simply steps off the side of the craft and disappears. He stares down after her in horror, watching as she plummets toward the ocean surface. Such a fall would be fatal on Earth. She vanishes beneath the surface with a light splash, surfacing and waving up at them a moment later. Jim laughs and steps off to follow her. Borman looks over at Skioth. “Go on,” the Martian urges, “I’ll be here for you when you’re ready to get out.”

“Mind taking it a bit lower for me?”

“I already have,” Skioth replies. When Borman turns around, he’s amazed to see they are mere inches above the water.

He jumps in, immediately finding himself surrounded by fish the size of tuna feeding on the shoal of smaller fish, an abundance of sea life the likes of which he has never seen. He surfaces, grabs a few quick breaths and then fills his lungs in order to dive down as deep as he can. When he reaches the bottom edge of the shoal, he finds creatures the size of whales gathered in pods of a dozen or so, feeding from beneath. The predators appear to have no interest in this stranger in their midst. For some reason, Borman senses he is in no danger.

For perhaps half an hour, they swim through the teeming mass. Borman doesn’t want to leave, but eventually he’s forced to quit because he’s so tired he can barely keep his head above water. He is the last to leave the ocean and he might have struggled to get himself back onto the Martian craft if not for Holtz, who simply reaches down and plucks him out with surprising strength. Borman is laughing now in exhausted exhilaration. “My God… That was unbelievable.”

“The ocean is our planet’s lifeblood,” she tells him. “A wild explosion of life in abundance, but also a closed system that must therefore self-regulate.”

“Like chaos in a bottle,” says Jim.

“The source of all mystery,” says Skioth, “and the ultimate expression of balance, the principle to which we have dedicated our lives.”

“I see that,” says Borman, “I really do. But you live in a world where all things are possible. And you yourselves said there aren’t very many of you. I just don’t get why having Jim here is such a problem for you.”

“When everything is possible, honoring rules becomes more important than ever,” says Skioth.

“If everyone remained free to create at will,” says Holtz, “within a short time, our world would be overrun.”

“What about children? You have them, don’t you?”

Borman hears Jim’s sharp intake of breath. Her expression turns blank and Holtz turns away to avoid eye contact. “There are no children here.”

He says, “By choice?”

“We do not die,” says Holtz. “Hence we must never have children.”

Borman is shocked by this. “You’re immortal?”

“We can die,” says Skioth. “We choose not to.”

“Which means… you’ve all been here since the beginning.”

Holtz says, “I was young when this world came into being. An element of that youth will forever remain, no matter how I old I get. The memories remain clear to me.”

For the first time since his arrival, Borman finds himself feeling sorry for them. Beautiful though this world may be, he’s not sure he would have the mental fortitude to contemplate remaining alive in it forever. Of course, he’d also prefer his final days to be spent on Earth rather than Mars, but that choice is no longer his to make. He sees in her eyes that Holtz senses his reaction and is saddened by it. But, somehow, she also understands.

Embarrassed at having his innermost thoughts laid bare, he steps closer toward the edge to get a better look at the water, now once again far below them. As he does so, the disc lurches to one side on a shift in the air current. He staggers off balance toward the side of the wing, expecting to take another tumble into the water, except some sort of irresistible force prevents him from falling.

He turns to her. “You’ve had your swim,” she says.

Borman asks, “How far away is the Martian capital?”

“The other side of the world,” says Holtz, resuming her focus on the way ahead. Once more, they gain speed until the surface of the ocean becomes a blur.

“One thing I’d like to know,” Borman whispers to Jim.  “Maybe you know the answer to this. They say they’ve been watching us. But they know most of what’s on TV isn’t real, right?”

“It’s not hard to tell the difference between fact and fiction,” he says. “I’m told that is the least of what the monitors in the capital can do.”

Holtz says, “We listened with great amusement to the radio broadcast of War of the Worlds. It’s a story well known to our people, how quickly Americans came to believe they were being invaded by Mars.”

Borman says, “Every boy in America equates Mars with alien invaders.”

Holtz smiles knowingly. “That is no accident.”

Borman shrugs and shakes his head. Skioth says, “For thousands of years on Earth, the word Mars has been synonymous with war. To wage war, you must hate your enemy, and the Befalyn’s hatred burned hot.”

“You’re saying it was the Ryl who made humans fear Mars?”

“When they lived among you openly, they were your gods,” says Holtz. “Their words, their ideas, became yours. Martians know all too well the pitfalls of this kind of hatred. It was inside us too. And to them we were warlike, though it was a war we quickly lost.”

“Was their technology more advanced than yours? Is that why you started trading with them?”

Skioth says, “Their metallurgical arts were indeed a science unknown to us. They did teach us much in that regard. But we surpassed them in the power of the mind.”

“In that sense, the Befalyn forced us to advance more quickly,” says Holtz. “The unification of thought was in its infancy when the war began.”

“But it’s what started the war,” says Skioth. “It’s a skill the Befalyn coveted greatly, though it was not something that came naturally to them.”

“They needed your help,” says Borman, “and they wanted to move to Mars to get it.”

“It was clear to us their permanent presence on Mars would result in them seeking to rule,” says Skioth. A group of islands appears to the left on the edge of the horizon. Dark clouds hang over them, a heavy rain falling. “The Rain Islands,” he says, pointing. “For those who love the wet.”

“I don’t get why the Ryl destroyed the planet,” says Borman. “It’s cutting off their nose to spite their face.”

Holtz appears confused by the expression, but says, “It was not their intention.” Her husband scoffs at the remark. “That is,” she persists, “not at first. Here, as in several matters of importance, Skioth and I differ in our views. But we do know this — killing becomes easier the more you do it.”

“That was a long time ago, right?”

“About 22,000 Earth years,” she says. “When your planet was in the middle of an ice age.”

“Much of Earth at that time was uninhabitable,” says Skioth. “On what fertile land remained, life was hard. The Befalyn had already been on Earth for 100,000 years by that time. They regarded it as their own. But they also knew they had to leave to survive.”

“Why didn’t they just return to their own world?”

Holtz says, “Their world travels across the galaxy on an ellipsis between our sun and the twin stars of Sirius. The orbit takes thousands of years to complete. Over those distances, the planet’s orbit is irregular. It is prone to the influence of other large planetary bodies. Hard to pinpoint.”

“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.

“This,” says Holtz, “is the citadel’s final line of defense. Arrive at any point in Firawn, and you face this puzzle. Only by unlocking it are visitors allowed to enter.”

“What’s to stop me just throwing a rope over and walking in?” Borman asks her.

“You will be lost forever in the maze,” Skioth replies.

Holtz and Skioth take hold of one another, touching foreheads as they did at the start of their journey. They turn toward the citadel, holding hands at each other’s side, but each raising their free arms toward Firawn. Borman glances at Jim, who merely shrugs in bemusement.

The air itself starts to ripple from the fingertips of the Martians, shimmering like a heat mirage. The puzzle of the city begins to unfurl, like the pages of a map, turning and evolving into its proper form. From the mountainside below them, a stairway quickly balloons out of the rock face. The topmost stair appears right in front of them, the staircase leading all the way down to the city’s central avenue, several hundred feet below.

Without hesitation, the two Martians start to descend. Holtz looks over her shoulder. “It’s safe now,” she calls to them. “Come on.”

“Guess we better follow them,” says Jim.

The staircase is wide and solid, carved from the mountainside itself. As they begin to descend, Borman is amazed to see with each step the staircase grows shorter at its far end. They are at the bottom in less than a minute.

The buildings lining both sides of the avenue are magnificent. They remind Borman of the Spanish city of Barcelona and the organic designs of architect Antonio Gaudi. Here, every structure is the same and yet different. It’s as if they have been shaped by wind and water, rather than by any deliberate act. Doorways look like cave entrances, windows are cracks and fissures. Terraces are decorated only by moss, grass and lichen, the very things nature would place upon them. Trees emerge from the stone, as if part of the living rock face. Some of the structures are plain and stone colored, others are awash with primary color, tiled in gleaming red and blue mosaic patterns. A measured celebration of imperfection.

He starts to see faces and eyes staring down at them from these odd-shaped portals with reluctant curiosity, carefully maintaining their distance. If these people are telepathic as Holtz has suggested, this reaction to their presence cannot be a good sign.

Their march down the main avenue of Firawn is punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps. Borman doesn’t hear another sound. They continue walking for maybe ten or fifteen minutes until they arrive at the end of the avenue. Here, the entrance to a large building stands out from all others as far more serious in purpose. Pillars on either side of its central wooden doors proclaim it to be a place of importance. Two Martian women await them on the steps that lead to the pillared entrance. They are even taller than Holtz and Skioth and tower over Borman and Jim as they hold out their arms in greeting.

“Hello,” says Borman.

“Pleased to meet you,” adds Jim.

“I am Vorp,” the first Martian woman says to Jim. “You will come with me.” She leads him back down the stairs and across the street.

“Where’s she taking him?” Borman asks.

“I am Dyrchel,” the second woman replies. “You will remain with me.”

“And who exactly are you?”

“We are junior members of the Council of One. The man you call Jim must face the ritual of acceptance.”

“The what now?”

Holtz says, “To judge whether he may be allowed to live.”

“Oh, come on, he’s done nothing wrong,” says Borman, “you don’t just get to kill him.”

“That is a matter for the council,” says Holtz, her tone offering reassurance, but also urging caution. Borman watches as Vorp leads Jim through the door of a small, bland building on the other side of the street. He wonders if they’ll see one another again.

Dyrchel says, “We have prepared quarters for you, in case you need refreshment ahead of your time before the council.”

Borman is about to gratefully accept the offer, but Holtz instead replies, “That will not be necessary.”

“Very good,” says Dyrchel. “The One awaits.”

40

The massive wooden doors swing open seemingly of their own volition. Each is covered in intricately carved panels of stars and planets, every panel a picture in itself in its own peculiar hue. Together, they form the image of a Martian face. High above him, the Earth is represented on one of the panels. It protrudes in bulbous relief and represents a Martian eyeball gazing knowingly down at him. The doors remind Borman of the ancient Assyrian palace entranceway that he discovered in the British Museum on their last trip to London. The doorway to the Council of One shares the same sense of grandiosity and self-importance.

Dyrchel waves them inside to vast atrium of marbled orange stone. Far above, the ceiling is a clear glass dome that looks like the underside of an enormous astronomical observatory.

“This is the home of the Signs Department,” says Holtz. “A small army of people live here, devoted to keeping and studying The Prophecy by monitoring the signs.

“Signs?” says Borman. “As in signals?”

“You are familiar with signals intelligence,” says Dyrchel. A CIA term. Apparently, America’s watchers are themselves being watched. “We monitor all incoming signals in the solar system.”

“How we Martians know so much about you—” says Holtz, “signals, captured by the Monument.”

On either side of the atrium, there are numerous other doors, all of them closed. Dyrchel leads them past these doors, all the way to the far side of the atrium. Here there is yet another set of double doors, identical to those at the exterior, but smaller and far less imposing. Dyrchel places her hand lightly in the middle of the doors, and they swing open to reveal a grand auditorium. In seats spread across an open floor, towering high up along the chamber’s walls, Borman sees hundreds of Martian faces looking directly at them, silently awaiting their arrival.

Once more urged forward by Dyrchel, they begin to walk along a central aisle toward the front of the chamber. At first, Borman tries not to look anyone in the eye. But he senses they all know him. Indeed, many react like they are seeing someone famous in the flesh for the first time. It’s eerily like the tickertape parades back home after Apollo 8, except here there is an undercurrent of disturbance. Not everyone here feels the same. For every two or three Martians who greet him happily, there are others who deliberately turn away to avoid his gaze, as if determined to shun him. He feels like a prisoner stepping forward to receive his sentence.

Which, of course, is precisely what’s happening here.

Dyrchel says, “All of these people have worked for all their lives on the problem of your arrival. All are deeply familiar with the Prophecy. It has fallen upon them to decode recent events.”

“Decode?”

Holtz says, “Our forebears had remarkable wisdom and insight. They saw the day of humanity’s arrival in the Martian realm in precise detail, even though they knew it would be an event occurring thousands of years after the time of their imagining.”

“You talk of forebears like they’re dead,” says Borman. “But aren’t they still living among you?”

Dyrchel says, “Our forebears were those versions of ourselves alive when we first arrived in this universe. They no longer exist in that form.”

“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.”

He pauses so they will understand the words that follow are not his own. “The Ryl co-ruler Ningal henceforth renounces all claim upon Mars and Martian science. In acknowledgement of the terrible wrongs committed by her people, Ningal wishes it known that the Ryl will remain worlds apart from Mars, and in permanent isolation from the Martian people. She says the destruction of Mars is a crime that has weighed heavily upon the collective conscience of her people for thousands of years and that they wish this to be their act of reparation.

“Ningal also wishes you to know that should you ever choose to return to the lower dimension you, the Martian people, shall be assured of safety. The Ryl believe the people of Mars and Earth must be free to communicate with one another. Ningal fears you have imprisoned yourselves in this world of your own creation. That you must consider returning to your natural place in the universe, where your DNA is tied to that of Earth and all the other worlds around your sun. That you are at risk of becoming just like them — exiled from the place of your origin.”

When he finishes speaking, the room is so utterly silent it feels like his words have been cast into a vacuum.

Winsporg asks him, “And what is your opinion of this message you convey?”

Borman takes a moment to collect himself. For the briefest moment, he fears the words will elude him. But he senses everybody in the chamber now eager to know what he has to say, and it occurs to him at that moment there are limits to their telepathy. Perhaps limits they impose upon themselves, like a form of personal space.

He says, “I think Ningal presumes a lot. In fact, I think she presumes too much. Firstly, as I understand it, your skill in this dimension could not return with you. Here, you can conjure up space ships and flying platforms, carve cities inside mountains with no more than the power of thought and pretty much do whatever you like. Where I come from, the only way we can do that is with a lot of hard physical effort. Do you even remember what that’s like?

“More importantly, you should know the Mars you left behind has no atmosphere, no magnetic field. It is almost uninhabitable. But there may be Martians who live there still, deep underground.” An undercurrent of shock ripples through the room behind him. “Ningal told me as much when she showed me the gold mine they have now abandoned. If those Martians do exist, theirs would be a very harsh existence, compared to the wonders of this new world you have made for yourselves. Thus, I believe the Ryl’s ultimate intent is for Martians to live on Earth. And this is an offer they have no right to make.”

Morpago asks, “Are you saying we would not be welcome on your planet?”

“It’s not as straightforward as that,” Borman replies. “But if you want a simple answer I would say no, you would not be welcomed. The Ryl asked Martians the same question all those years ago, and look how that ended.

“Humanity doesn’t even know you exist. It would be a massive leap just for me to tell them we are not alone in the solar system. But to suggest the surviving Martian population now wants to move to Earth? Humans are fearful people. Misunderstandings are easy in my world. It wouldn’t take long for people to start talking about a Martian invasion.”

Zisibor says, “Tell me, Frank Borman — do you know what your Befalyn goddess expects us to do with you?”

“That she didn’t say.”

“Nor did she seek your opinion.”

“I’d like to go home, but is that even an option?”

Morpago raises her hand to bring the discussion to a close. “There is another who now wishes to speak.”

The room behind Borman erupts in debate as the figure strides out to join the Council of One. Only when he finally looks up, does Borman realize with relief that it’s Jim. But the feeling is short-lived.

“I am new among you, but today I am reborn. My name is Solus.”

Borman knows immediately the choice of a new name does not bode well.

“I will be brief. By the standards of Martian law, Frank Borman must die. He is a threat. A cancerous cell inside an otherwise healthy organism.”

Borman can hardly believe what he’s hearing. It’s theater. Surely, they’ve put him up to this.

Solus continues. “I say this with a heavy heart, but in the name of Martian preservation.” There are murmurs of agreement all around. “But I also believe our defense cannot end there. I call upon the Council of One to go further. To weaponize the Monument. To blow Earth from the heavens.” Borman tries to object, but no sound emerges. “Your future — our future — may depend upon it,” says Solus.

Morpago stands, as do the other members of the One. Solus simply nods and exits the platform through a side door.

“We have much to consider,” Morpago concludes. “Colonel Borman, it is time for you to leave us.” She points to a door at the side of the chamber.

He walks alone from the room. Neither Holtz nor Skioth move to follow. Never in his life has he felt more of an outsider than this moment. A terrible thought bears down on him like a crushing weight — that all his accomplishments have come to nothing. That his sacrifice, discipline, and honor mean nothing to these people. To them, he is he no more than a harbinger of war.

42

The room is comfortable. It has a bed and a basin with running water. There is even a toilet, presumably installed especially for him because from what he’s seen the Martians don’t use them. They don’t need them, because they have no need for food. The engineer in him marvels at how a physical body can function like that, one more reminder he’s in a place where the normal laws of physics no longer apply. He fills a glass with water, thirstily emptying its contents.

The room opens onto a small balcony, overlooking the main street along which they entered Firawn. He sees one or two Martians walking between buildings, appearing briefly and then disappearing again, almost like they don’t want to be in the open air any longer than necessary.

Like they’re on high alert.

“There’s so much to look at, isn’t there?”

He turns to find Solus in the room with him. He looks different. He dressed like a Martian now, in a body-hugging uniform colored to closely match his skin tone. Like he’s naked and fully dressed all at once. His hair is lighter, more blond than grey, and he’s no longer wearing glasses. He wonders whether to feel angry at being condemned, but finds he has neither the will nor the strength to summon the emotion.

“Every time I remember where I am,” Borman tells him, “I have to convince myself all over again I’m not dreaming. They’re treating you well, I hope?”

He smiles. “Solus, do you like it? It’s Latin for ‘the only.’ I chose it myself, actually.”

“I guess that means they’re not going to kill you.”

Solus shakes his head. “I’m way too valuable for that. There are Martians out there queuing up to hear me speak about the wonders of life on Earth. I’m like a walking encyclopedia to them. A one of a kind.”

“The only one of a kind.”

“Exactly.”

“Won’t you be lonely?”

“I do find myself missing my wife, which is a curious thing because technically I’ve never had a wife.”

“I never met her. I can’t…”

“No, I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Maybe they’ll do it for you.”

“Perhaps. If I ask,” says Solus, both of them knowing he never will.

“Nobody should be alone in the world.”

“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.

He returns to the spacesuit. They have left it here for a reason. He puts it on. It’s hard and slow without help, but he finally manages to get it hooked up. He flips on the PLSS and checks the readout. It’s functional, but just as he left it — with maybe ten minutes of air at most left in the tank. He snaps his helmet on, walks up to the doors and pushes on them as hard as he can with both hands.

With a click, they swing open. He hears a rushing sound as air in the Martian chamber is sucked through the doorway, open now to utter blackness. The air takes him along for the ride as it’s sucked from the chamber. It feels like Mars itself is venting him into space.

He surrenders to the force and floats into the darkness, feels himself catapulting end over end. The light of his exit point revolves in and out of his field of vision, gradually getting smaller and smaller as his rotations begin to increase. Eventually the dot passing his visor travels so quickly it becomes a thin line. Dimly, he wonders how he can be tumbling so quickly and yet still remain conscious.

Then the line disappears altogether and he finds himself engulfed in utter blackness. He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales, trying to calm himself down. Strangely, he no longer has any sense of movement. He takes another breath and then another, expecting each one to be his last.

“Can anybody hear me? This is Colonel Frank Borman.”

He breathes again, wondering briefly if undergoing the Ritual of Elements might have better prepared him for this moment.

Then time starts to fracture. There is a blinding flash of light, and he sees himself a short distance ahead — the back of his own spacesuit. This moment is familiar, but it’s over in a flash. He sees himself disappear.

Once more, he is all alone. Back inside the Monument on Phobos.

44

The blast of air at his back ceases. He turns to see the doorway through which he just arrived has disappeared without trace. All he sees now is his own reflection on the inner wall of the Monument chamber. The chamber as it was when he first entered. Meaning, he hopes, he is back in his own universe.

He checks his air again. Eight minutes left.

The walls of the chamber are glassy and opaque. They don’t allow him to see outside. He starts to move, but forgets about the zero gravity. He immediately starts somersaulting end on end toward the ceiling, and it feels like history repeating. He hits ass first, bouncing forward and down uncontrollably. He’s forced to reach out desperately to stop his helmet taking the full impact with the floor of the chamber.

As his gloves touch the ground, instinctively he claws for a hand hold. Instead, he finds his arms splaying out sideways by his own mass and momentum. He bounces, but only a short distance. He’s about three feet in the air and slowly pulls his knees toward his chest. It shifts his center of gravity and turns him toward the vertical, allowing him to extend his legs again so they reach the floor. He inches his way forward, taking the smallest of steps toward the face of the Monument that he believes will offer him the way out.

He can only hope the Monument functions in the same way in both dimensions. He has no idea whether the same structure exists simultaneously in both worlds, or if they are two separate structures somehow interconnected. Did they build it from their side of the dimensional divide, or was it their final act before departing this universe? He should have asked more questions, and wishes now he had a camera. But beyond all else, what he needs is to find a way to get home.

He does the only thing that makes sense; he tells the Monument what he wants. “I need to get out of here.” The same words that opened an exit on the Martian side. It does the trick. The Monument hears him. By his command, an exit opens through the wall in front of him, revealing once more the surface of the Martian moon, as it was when he first arrived.

He steps outside to find the moon once more whole, in close orbit around a barren red planet Mars.

There is a bright light at the end of the dusty walkway. Ningal’s spacecraft, awaiting his return. He realizes she’s been here all along, cloaking the ship to ensure he would see the Monument as his only hope of survival. Manipulating him.

He stares at her ship, but stands his ground. He’s not going to her now. He’s done her bidding, but he no longer trusts her to do his.

She knows. He can feel it. She’s calling him to her. It’s almost like he can hear her inside his head. And he wants to go. He’s drawn to her. Part of him feels ashamed of it, like she’s a forbidden pleasure. The other woman. But it’s not as simple as that. Her allure has hooked him at a spiritual level. She is a higher power made flesh. In every sense of the word, a goddess. Thousands of years ago, human beings bowed down to her in worship. The Ryl accepted that devotion as justified, like any creator would.

But the Ryl are merely part of a food chain. The next rung in the ladder. No matter what role they played in the birth of modern man, Ningal is no more god than he is. Though every fiber of his being yearns for her presence, he fears he must stay away from her at all costs. Like any bad habit, the only way to kick it is abstinence. Cold turkey.

But his feet won’t move. His air won’t last much longer; he needs to decide. Go to her and live, or stay here and die. It doesn’t seem like much of a choice. But something is eating away at the back of his head, a dim recollection of a third option.

This is ridiculous. He’s not going to stand here and die. She used him, so what? Two can play at that game. He starts walking toward the ship. He has maybe four minutes of air left. The ship is a good 400 feet away. About the length of a football field. He’ll be cutting it very close. He starts to move as quickly as he dares. Every step he takes toward her feels like a betrayal. But time is his greatest enemy now. His steps grow larger, each one taking him higher and higher in the air until eventually he finds himself floating for so long that he fears he has taken one leap to many and lost touch with the moon’s surface.

The Ryl ship is almost directly below him, yet he has no way to get to it. He hangs in space, helpless. Frustrated. Angry at himself for doing something so stupid. He wonders whether holding his breath would do any good, but his heart is beating so fast he eventually figures the effort would be futile.

Then the ship seems to move a bit closer. She must be coming for him. Thank God. But why so slowly? He checks again. Two minutes of air. Maybe a minute or two more of labored breathing as he’s forced to suck in the last of his exhalations. But it’s not the ship that’s moving, it’s him. The shadowed, pock-marked surface of Phobos is also getting closer — he’s falling, just incredibly slowly. He tries not to panic, which is difficult because he has no control. All he can do is wait and try not to breathe the last of his air.

Which is when he remembers his alternative exit plan: the emergency beacon given to him by Donald Menzel (the real Menzel). He unzips a pocket on the front of his suit and reaches inside. At first, he feels nothing. It’s hard to feel anything through his gloves, but he knows it’s there. Eventually his fingers grab it by the edges. He pulls it out.

A locator disc: the same technology used by Menzel aboard the USS Yorktown to fold space and transport them from one side of the world to another. He remembers it’s like stepping through a doorway. Borman squeezes the two faces of the disc between his thumb and forefinger as hard as he can.

Nothing happens.

Less than a minute of air left. He’s very close to the ground now. His feet are only inches above the lunar dust. He examines the disc, wondering why it hasn’t worked. Probably something he’s not doing right, but he has no time to second guess. He feels his boots touch down. Back to Plan A.

He tosses the disc down into the dust in frustration. The open hatch of Ningal’s ship is right in front of him now, just a few feet away. He can’t see her, but he knows she’s there, standing just on the other side of the vortex dividing her inside world from the vacuum of space. Waiting for him, arms open. Frustrated and determined not to inadvertently launch himself into space again, he instead makes one final, desperate lunge toward the ship, aiming to get himself through the hatch in one jump.

But the moment his boots leave the surface of Phobos, the ship disappears and he feels a sudden pull of gravity. He slams into something hard and smacks his head into the top of his space helmet. Everything goes black.

Someone is pulling him upright.

His head hurts like hell.

There is a click and a welcome rush of air as someone removes his helmet. He takes a deep gulp of dank and dusty air. Nothing has ever tasted so good. He takes another and another, his hungry lungs burning from the effort, the pain behind his eyes telling him his air must have run out while he was unconscious.

A familiar face smiles at him. “You’re alive.” It’s Donald Menzel.

“That was one heck of a re-entry,” says Borman.

“Thank the Lord,” says Menzel.

“He had very little to do with it,” Borman assures him. He looks around, realizing he’s back in the Verus Foundation’s underground facility, the same place Menzel brought him last time. He looks up at the scientist and grins in relief. “It’s good to see you again.”

45

As Borman pulls into the driveway, he sees the lawn is newly mown. The site humbles him. That has to be Fred’s handiwork. It should be him doing the mowing, but like so many things on the home front, he’s left it to Susan to take care of. She taught their son how to mow the lawn. That should have been something his dad taught him, but Borman has only ever been a part-time father. For years, NASA has consumed his every waking hour. It’s all his family knows. It’s all they expect.

She meets him on the front porch, smiling and happy, showing no signs of concern or indeed any idea of what he’s been through. He pulls her close and kisses her on the lips, a little harder than intended, but she doesn’t resist. She’s surprised, but in a good way.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, fighting back tears.

As far as she’s concerned, he’s been gone less than 48 hours. For him, it’s been more than a week. Most of that time, Borman was convinced he would never see his family again. This feels like he’s been given a presidential pardon. He holds her tightly in his arms, feeling like he never wants to let her go.

Finally, she peels herself away, not because the affection is unwelcome, but because it’s so completely out of character. This in itself is enough to make her worry. “Is everything OK, Frank?” But Susan Borman almost buckles at the knees from the shock of seeing tears rolling down her husband’s face. “Good God — what’s wrong?”

“I’m just so happy to see you. I thought…” He stops himself.

“What, are your thoughts classified now too?”

“I thought I’d never see you again.” Tears are pouring down his face now. Susan is both moved and more than a little unnerved.

“But you can never tell me why.”

“No. I’m going to tell you everything. To hell with official secrecy. You need to know.” More than that, he needs to tell her. For sanity’s sake, as well as for their marriage. “I got something for you.” He pulls a pebble from his pocket.

“You got me a rock?”

“It’s one of a kind. Well, here on Earth it is.”

Susan frowns. “I’m not going to like this story, am I?”

Borman laughs. “Oh, the story is incredible. It’ll blow your mind. But I guess you won’t like it, no.”

“Well, I’ve just made some coffee.”

“That sounds incredible. Hey, I’ve been thinking. We don’t need to be in Houston any more. Let’s move back to Tucson.”

“But you still work for NASA, don’t you?”

“Well I guess so, yeah, but they don’t really need me much now. It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be closer to your mum and away from all the crazy? Maybe help you calm down a bit. Know what I mean?”

She nods. There’s been way too much of the crazy in the past few years.

“I love you so much, Susan.”

“No more secret missions?”

“Not like that. Not like that.”

She shakes her head. “You are unbelievable, you know that?”

“That I do believe is the truth, Mrs Borman.”

46

At noon on any given day of the week, Washington’s Sans Souci restaurant is buzzing. Every table is full. Everyone is talking loudly, like they want their conversations to be the talk of the town. It’s a place people come to be noticed. Today, the general level of buzz has risen to fever pitch in anticipation of one of President Nixon’s regular lunch visits.

It strikes Borman as a most unsuitable place to be meeting Trick Stamford, given what they have to discuss. He’s trying his best to limit the conversation to small talk, hoping to suggest they find somewhere more appropriate once they’ve finished their Martinis.

“That chandelier is a bit over the top, don’t you think?” Borman decides. “And the lamps? I’ve never seen street lamps inside a restaurant before.”

“Don’t worry, the food more than makes up for it.”

“Really?”

“No, it’s terrible,” says Stamford. “I don’t know why people love this place so much. It puts French cuisine on a pyre, sets it on fire and burns it blacker than the charred corpse of Joan of Arc.”

“You’ve got a sick mind, you know that?”

Stamford laughs. “What’s the matter? You seem ill at ease, Frank.”

“Just picked up on that, have you?”

“You’re worried we’ll be overheard.”

“Aren’t you?”

Stamford looks around the room. “There’s a few people here who might recognize you, but this is Washington — you’re not the one they’re here to see. When Nixon’s entourage walks in, nobody will give a damn what you and I say to one another. It’s called hiding in plain sight. Trust me, I’m better at this than you are.”

Borman is grateful his Apollo 8 fame already seems to be fading in the eyes of the public. The success of Apollo 9 and this week’s launch of Apollo 10 have afforded him a greater degree of anonymity. The stars of Washington seem to glimmer in a universe of their own. Power is what holds people’s attention in the capital, far more than yesterday’s hero. Still, it feels strange to be out in the open like this. When the drinks arrive, he knocks back half a Martini in one gulp. He’s not much of a drinker, but he hopes it will calm his nerves.

“I read your report,” Stamford tells him. “As you know, the old man and me are not easily shocked or surprised, but to be honest with you we were just about ready to consign you to a rubber room. Mind-reading Martians? A different dimension?”

Borman is starting to think this lunch might be a mistake. “How do you think I felt, putting that stuff down on paper? It’s like something out of an Asimov novel. But it happened. All of it. I haven’t lost my marbles.”

“If you had, you’d be the last person to know about it,” says Stamford, laughing. “As it turns out, we found something, well, I should say Menzel found something to back up your story. But given you failed to mention it in your report, I’m wondering how much you know about it.”

Borman stares back at him nonplussed. “First, tell me what you know.”

“It was attached to the back of your spacesuit. To your life support system. A pocket was sewn into the side where a pocket never used to be.” Stamford waits, apparently seeking some glimmer of recognition in Borman’s eyes. Seeing none, he continues. “It was put there, I suppose, by your hosts. A gift. Something truly remarkable.”

Stamford takes a slow sip of his drink as the buzz in the room intensifies, signifying Nixon’s arrival. The president waves to several people, offers a confident smile that somehow says ‘good to see you’ and ‘leave me alone now’ all at the same time.

Stamford says, “Perfect timing, Mr President.” He turns back around to find Borman hiding his face behind the menu. “Don’t worry — old Dick is in his element over there. He can’t see past the end of his secretary.”

Borman keeps his eyes on the prize. “You were saying?”

“Menzel was confounded by what he had. Didn’t know what to make of it. Which is why he brought it to us, I suppose.”

“Yeah. I really wish he hadn’t done that,” says Borman.

Stamford smiles, realizing now Borman knows a lot more than he’s letting on. “He needed us to help decode what he found. He knew it was something big, too big to do all that work on his own. It was the right call. All of our collective efforts will take months to get to the bottom of it all, maybe years. But I guess you know that already.”

“It’s a computer memory module,” Borman replies. “Same design as the ones Raytheon is making to run the Apollo guidance computer. Which is why it had us stumped.”

“You mean to say the Martians didn’t tell you they were gonna do that?”

Borman shrugs. “I had no idea. It was Menzel who found it sewn into a pocket on the side of my life support unit, where I couldn’t see it. We didn’t notice it until a day later, when I was working up my mission report — a pocket that didn’t belong there.”

“Holding a component that looks like a piece of NASA technology, but is nothing of the sort.”

Borman nods. “Which is smart, because only somebody incredibly familiar with the functionality of that spacesuit would notice it. Even if the wrong person somehow did find it by accident, there’s no particular reason to think it’s anything other than NASA technology. Except, of course, when you take a look at what it contains.”

“Which you did, right?”

“It’s exactly what it looks like, except it’s a thousand times more powerful than even the most advanced prototype in the Raytheon labs. I could see that just by the different wiring configuration.”

“And that’s just the tip of the iceberg,” says Stamford. “It contains data. Lots of it.”

“Martian data,” says Borman.

“Buddy, this information is mind-blowing.”

It galls him to hear Stamford talk like they’re friends, but Borman lets it slide to keep the man talking. “How so?”

“We think they might have given us the means to create a world like theirs. Maybe even one in which humans and Martians could co-exist.”

Somebody nearby laughs. Apparently, the president said something funny. Borman isn’t smiling. “Listen Trick, if the Martians have done that, it’s precisely because they don’t want us paying them any more visits. This is their way of saying, ‘leave us alone.’”

“You can’t know that for sure,” says Stamford.

Borman’s eyes narrow. He places his hands on the table to help rein in the anger building up in his chest. “I’d bet my life on it,” he says. “And by God, you damn well better pass that on to your daddy. We are not going back to Mars. We’re not welcome.” Stamford looks suitably chastened. He smiles weakly, suddenly at a loss for words. Borman lifts a finger in Nixon’s direction. “He know about any of this?”

Stamford slowly shakes his head. “No. No way.” He leans forward. “Listen, I hear what you’re saying. But you have accomplished something incredible here, Frank. You and I are going to be seeing a lot more of one another.”

“No thanks. I’m not interested.”

“Course you are. We’re going to make you rich. Besides, old buddy, I’m afraid that’s not a request. It’s part of the deal. You’re one of us now. No retreat.”

“Said like a man who’s never seen the front line.”

Stamford drains the last of his Martini. He says, “I wanted to fight. Back in ’65 I was all gung ho, ready to volunteer. Dad wouldn’t hear of it. Said the war was a mistake. And how right he was. Still… it’s made us more money than I could have imagined.”

Borman frowns in disgust. “Yes, I’ve learned a thing or two about your side businesses,” courtesy of Roscoe Hillenkoetter’s intelligence sources (it was Susan’s idea to call him). He leans forward, rubbing his chin. “The contraband you’re flying into Saigon.” Meaning heroin. The smile vanishes from Stamford’s face. Borman continues, “You launder your money with the help of your business partner, an Italian mobster by the name of Michele Sindona.”

“Is that right?” Stamford tries to sound dismissive, but doesn’t quite pull it off.

“Your man in Milan funnels your dirty money through his accounts in the Vatican Bank, and it comes out all nice and clean. I even have the account numbers.”

“What do you want, Frank?”

“To be left alone. You touch me or my family, that information goes public. Hear me?”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

Another world. It’s a grand idea, but if it’s to be built by men of this caliber, Borman wonders what would become of it. Surely nothing of any benefit to the vast majority of Earth’s population, who’ll most likely never even be told about it. Men like the Stamfords will use the Martian knowledge to build a new world for themselves. Their own private retreat for when their dark souls no longer find solace in the luxuries of the old world, as it moves closer to the brink of self-destruction.

Surely the Martians themselves know that. In offering their gift, they also offer a choice: a map leading the way to a different future. But there is so much more pain to come before humanity even sees there is a choice. A single choice. The only choice. He wonders if it can ever come to be, whether there’ll be enough good people to make that call when the time comes. Whichever way it goes, it won’t be in his lifetime.

Borman sees the mortal terror in Stamford’s eyes, and knows the man is worried about being the bearer of bad news. “Look,” Borman tells him, “you want me to cooperate? Find a way to end this damn war.”

Stamford’s eyes widen. “Only man who can do that is the one sitting behind me. He’s trying to do what Johnson couldn’t — find a way for America to pull out with honor.”

“They won’t find honor where it never existed.”

“That’s a bit harsh. I thought you hated the commies?”

Borman gazes at the floor. It’s true. For years, he’s regarded communism as the great scourge of the 20th century. But he’s learnt there are worse things. “When all’s said and done,” he says, “we’re talking about a tiny rural third world country on the other side of the planet. What does it really matter if communists are in charge? I don’t think anybody has dared ask that question in years.”

“It’s called the Domino Theory, Frank. Look it up.”

“Yes, and more than forty thousand American boys have been slaughtered — ten times that number on the Vietnamese side — because of our blind allegiance to that theory. But it was a war we could never win. The French couldn’t, and neither can we. What’s worse, we’ve known it from the get-go. Because they’re not fighting for communism, they’re fighting for independence, and they’ll never give up.”

“That may be true,” says Stamford. “But try going on TV and telling that to the American people. Any president saying those words, he won’t be in the job for long.”

“Nixon should do it anyway,” says Borman. “More people are ready to hear it than he could possibly imagine.”

“You mean the Martians.”

Borman nods.

“Then should we assume they are slowly, but surely, drawing their plans against us?”

Borman shakes his head in disbelief. “Our greatest threat isn’t out there, it’s down here. The Martians aren’t aggressive, they just want to be left alone. Our problem is, knowing they’re out there, we won’t be able to stop ourselves from going back to find them.”

“When they don’t want to be found.”

“Damn straight,” says Borman. “Not by us. Because they know us better than we know ourselves.

“When Neil and Buzz land on the Moon, they’ll leave a plaque on the surface that says, ‘We came in peace for all mankind.’ Those words are the statement of intent in the law passed by Congress in 1958 to set up NASA. ‘We come in peace…’ Let me tell you, up until a few weeks ago, I believed that.”

“Not now?”

“I want to believe it,” says Borman, “But I just don’t think it’s true.”

“No,” says Trick, “I guess not.”

“And once we’re safely on the Moon, how long before we look to Mars? It’s the next logical step. Ten, maybe fifteen years is all we need, if we set our minds to the task. But we’ll be going there blind, unless Bermuda is willing to spill the beans.”

“You mean disclosure of the alien presence? Going public with what they know?” Trick Stamford laughs at the thought of it. “God almighty, imagine the global pandemonium. That is never going to happen.”

“Then maybe you will start that war of the worlds.”

Trick shakes his head slowly and confidently. “It won’t get that far. Nixon is not about to commit the tens of billions of dollars needed for NASA to fly to Mars. The government is already hemorrhaging too many taxpayer dollars in Vietnam. Once the Apollo era is over, it’ll be too much of a political risk to keep spending big on the space program. We’ll make sure of it.

“In the meantime, we’ll be making a few quiet trips of our own. That disc of yours is still up there on Phobos. You’ve opened the door, Frank. A lot of people are eternally grateful to you for that.”

“They’ll know,” says Borman, under his breath.

“The Martians? That’s a risk we’re willing to take. After all, there’s gold in them thar hills.”

YOUR FREE NOVELLA

It’s been a pleasure to build relationships with my readers and I’d love you to be a part of that.

I like to stay in touch with blog entries every month or so and occasionally other material that comes my way I think will be of interest to people.

When you join my mailing list you get all of that — even better, you get book one in the Verus Foundation Series for free.

Sleeping Gods is my first adventure with astronaut Frank Borman, about what he and the crew of Apollo 8 saw on the far side of the Moon and the subsequent cover-up when they fell back to Earth.

Just CLICK HERE to sign up to my list and follow the links for your book.

A REVIEW WOULD BE GREAT

Your opinion will help bring this book to the attention of others.

Honest reviews of my books are a really important way to attract more readers.

If you’ve enjoyed this book, I’d be most grateful if you took a few minutes to leave a review (a sentence or two is fine) wherever you bought your copy of Apollo 8.1.

Thanks a bunch,

Matt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Eaton is a journalist of longstanding across print to radio and TV news, and more recently in digital news production.

He lives in Brisbane, Australia, but travels regularly with his English-born wife Claire and daughters Stella and Molly.

Matt calls himself a pagan with an open mind and a warm heart who shies away from religion. He was born in 1966, the Chinese Year of the Fire Horse — such people are notoriously bad luck, irresponsible, rebellious and were often drowned at birth.

A career in the media was inevitable. Making matters worse, Matt is the sort of iconoclast politicians and people of influence love to hate — he’s one of those annoying types who rattles cages and challenges beliefs. He tries very hard not to hate back. That shit will give you cancer.

Copyright

Apollo 8.1

Copyright © 2018 Matthew J. Eaton

Vagus Publishing

mattjeaton.com

Edited by Suzanne Lahna, Word Vagabond

Cover design by William Heavey

Content

Matt Eaton
APOLLO 8.1

GRAB A FREE NOVELLA

CHOOSE DEATH

1

2

3 March 1

4

5 March 2

6

7 March 4

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28 March 1

29

30

31

32 March 2

33

34

35 March 4

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

YOUR FREE NOVELLA

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright