The food at least was familiar. I had seen it all before. In fact, I had seen a lot of it. We had been living on identically that same grub for months, me and Pat, in all her copies, and Rosaleen Artzybachova and Jimmy Lin and Martin Delasquez. Apart from a few unfamiliar and unappetizing ropy twists of something smelly and purplish, it was the food Dopey had copied for us when we were his prisoners, duplicated from the stores on the Starlab orbiter we had been snatched from. Apples. Corn chips. Heaps of dried or irradiated meals in cans and jars and cartons, every one of which I was totally sick of. When I first saw that pile of rations it made me suddenly aware that I was, as a matter of fact, pretty hungry. When I realized it was the same boring stuff I’d eaten much too much of already, a lot less so.
There were a couple of jugs of water beside the stack of rations. I took a swig out of one of them-it tasted flat, as though it had been distilled-but while that relieved one biological need, it just made another one worse.
I had to pee.
I looked doubtfully at the floor. When we were captives of Dopey and his Beloved Leaders, our cell had this trick floor that doubled as a sewage-removal system. Any waste that hit the floor was absorbed and carried away without leaving even a stain. Even human waste.
This canary-yellow porcelain stuff was something else again. It didn’t look promising. However, nature was not to be denied. I selected a corner of the room and let fly; and when I was through I watched, without much optimism, to see if the urine would seep away.
It didn’t.
I said, “Shit.” All right, that’s a trivial thing. But it was one more damn blow, on top of a lot of others. You have to remember that, just hours before, my future had seemed really bright: home, safe, with the dear Pat Adcock I had just discovered I loved.
But I wasn’t home. I wasn’t safe. Pat was God knew where, and I was worse off than ever. Literally, now I didn’t even have a pot to piss in.
So I did the only thing I could do. I fell back on my Bureau training.
I took a deep breath. I crammed some corn chips into my mouth, popped open a random jar (chicken a la king, it was, and really unpleasant in its cold and slimy state). I looked around the room to see if any curious eyes were observing me-didn’t matter if they were, of course-and I began to tap systematically at the walls and chest and doors.
Now, why did I do that?
It wasn’t out of any real hope. I didn’t see that I had an ice cube’s chance in Hell of ever getting back to NBI headquarters in Arlington with whatever odd bits of information I might learn through all this poking and prying. I did it anyway, because it was my job.
Back in basic training, the meanest of my drill instructors had explained that to us, while we were lined up, as sweating and stinking and sodden as we were, right after the obstacle course and just before the five-kilometer run. DIs rarely show sympathy.
This one had none at all. “What are you, tired? You don’t know what tired is yet. You assholes are gonna be a lot worse off than this before you’ve put your twenty years in! Times you’re gonna be exhausted and shitting your pants, but that don’t let you off nothing. Whatever happens, whatever the bad guys do to you, you do your job. If they beat the piss out of you, if they cut off your balls and gouge out your fuckin’ eyes, you don’t forget what I’m saying. You ain’t paid to give up. You’re paid to keep on doing what you’re missioned to do, so, if there’s a miracle and you get out alive, you can report on every goddam thing you see and hear. Any questions?”
I was stupider in those days. I said, “Sir! How are we going to see anything if they’ve gouged out our eyes?”
She had an answer for that. She said, “You! Fall down and gimme thirty!”
So-having nothing promising to do-I did what I coulddo.
I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to get out of this place, and find some way to get back to the transit machine, and zap myself back home. I didn’t quite see how I was going to arrange that, but the first step was to gather information.
So I tapped the walls and tried the doors every way I could think of. The doors stayed locked. They were perfectly ordinary doors that swung open on hinges the way a door should do-nothing exotic or super high-tech, except that they didn’t seem to have any handles. However I pushed or kicked them, they didn’t move. Neither did the lid of the chest, when I went back to that. I didn’t give up. I rummaged through the pile of food to see if there was anything hidden under it, and I even took one fairly nauseating taste of the purplish stuff, and I pulled and tugged at the unknown object behind my right ear, trying to figure out what that was all about. I could tell a few things about it. It was about the size of a pigeon’s egg. It was smooth-surfaced, either metal or ceramic-when I tapped my fingernail against it, it sounded more ceramic than metal, but I couldn’t be sure. It was ribbed, and the skin of my scalp seemed to have grown right around it as though it belonged there, the way your gums surround your teeth.
But that was all I could tell about the thing. So I went back to my tapping and probing, because, even if there wasn’t any drill sergeant around to make me do push-ups if I didn’t, that was my job. And while I was hard at it, nibbling at some kind of dried fruit bar while I did, one of the doors opened. It let in another couple of those glassy robots-one bronze, one cherry red; I didn’t think I had seen either of them before-along with my former captor and present traveling companion, the little alien creature with a body like a peacock and a face like a nasty-minded cat, Dopey.
The robots stood silently communing for a moment, but I didn’t see what they were up to. I was looking at Dopey. It was clear that the ugly little creature had been having at least as hard a time as I. His decorous little muu-muu was stained and, where it opened for his peacock plume, it was shredded. The plume itself was muddily dark, with none of its usual shifting iridescent colors. Dopey’s fur had stains of its own, his belly bag was missing and he was wearing a decoration I hadn’t seen before. It was ribbed like my patch and gold in color, which my own might well have been since I couldn’t see the thing. The only difference was that his patch was on top of his head instead of behind one ear. He gazed at me blearily out of those kitten eyes and groaned.
“We are in terrible trouble, Agent Dannerman,” he informed me. Then he waddled over to the food and began attacking the purplish stuff without another word.
I didn’t need to be told that we were in trouble, but there was a good side to it. Now I had someone I could talk to without penalty.
What stopped me was the presence of the Christmas trees. I eyed them warily, but they were ignoring me. They had busied themselves with domestic chores. The cherry-colored one was mopping my little pool of urine from the floor, while the other did something to the porcelain chest that opened it up. Inside the chest was a heap of something that looked like oatmeal. The bronze one tapped the side of the chest with a thrust of branches and pointed another cluster at me. “This is to contain your excrements,” it said. “Do not continue to soil the floor.” And then the two of them left.
I had been a captive before, but this was the first time I had been given a litter box, like some old lady’s pet cat. The place was full of humbling experiences.
But we were alone, and it was my chance to talk to Dopey. I followed him to the food stacks and said, “All right, as you say, we’re in trouble. But where are we in trouble? And how did we get here?”
He chewed greedily for a moment before he answered. Or didn’t answer, actually. He said, still chewing, “If you have eaten all you wish, Agent Dannerman, you would be well advised to sleep now. You may not get many opportunities.”
Well, I knew that, but what he said sounded odd to me. I couldn’t quite think why. Then I realized that Dopey had spoken to me in English.
That was when I became aware that I hadn’t been speaking English with the Christmas-tree machines. I had been talking to them in their own chirpy language, of which, I could have sworn, I had never known a single word.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER SIX
Well, I was exhausted and I still had the residual headache, but I figured out the explanation for that fast enough. It had to be the thing they’d stuck on my head that accounted for my sudden fluency in Horch. The important thing was that, in whatever language, I now had someone who might answer some questions for me.
“Just tell me what happened,” I coaxed.
He looked at me, and then at the remainder of his meal. Then he made the body-wriggle that was his version of a shrug. “Very well, but you should have deduced it for yourself, Agent Dannerman. When we entered the transit machine we were transmitted to your Starlab, you and I along with the others. But, of course, once a pattern has been constructed in the machine for transmission, it remains available, so that from that pattern copies may be made at any time. As, you will recall, I had previously made copies of your Dr. Adcock for you.”
I didn’t have to be reminded of that. I remembered everything there was to remember about Pat Adcock.
“Therefore it should not surprise you that the Horch made copies of us so that we could be questioned.”
“But where are we? I certainly don’t recognize this place-is it some kind of Horch base?”
“It is now,” he said sourly. “Nevertheless it is the same base, on the same planet in the same globular cluster that we were in before. I do not know by what treachery the Horch were able to break into our transmission channels, but it enabled them to surprise and occupy this base-at great cost in lives and materiel, of course, but the Horch do not care about such things. Of course, the Horch have obviously made some changes in the structures to suit their own purposes. I assume from the changes that some time has elapsed since we were transmitted.”
“How much time?” I demanded. He just did that body-twitching shrug again. I tried another tack. “About the questioning, Dopey. They’re asking some pretty funny questions. Wouldn’t you think they’d want to know the important stuff about Earth, like our technology, what kind of weapons we have, like that?”
“But they surely know all those things already, Agent Dannerman,” he said, looking surprised. “They are simply filling in gaps in the knowledge obtained from the others of us whom they have already copied and questioned. Did you think we were the first?”
As a matter of fact, that was exactly what I had thought. I wished I could go on thinking it, because if they had questioned other copies of Dopey and of me, it was unpleasantly likely that they had also done the same thing, with the same brutal tactics, to Rosaleen and Jimmy and Martin ... and to Pat.
To my own Pat.
My own Pat, whom I knew to be a pretty self-willed person when she chose to be. She wouldn’t have taken any more guff from the Christmas trees than I had, at first. And then they would have done to her what they did to me.
That was not something I could bear thinking about. While I was thinking about it anyway, because I couldn’t help myself, Dopey was going about his own business. He didn’t speak to me again. He finished his meal, decorously relieved himself in the litter box, then selected a spot on the floor and crouched down, tucking his head under his plume for a nap.
I couldn’t let that happen, because I needed to get the image of Pat being ripped open by a robot out of my mind. I said, “Wait a minute, Dopey.”
He pulled his head back out again and regarded me crossly. “You are willful, Agent Dannerman,” he complained. “Did you not understand what I said about sleeping when we could?”
“I did, but I wanted to ask you something. Why do they have to torture us?”
That made him wrinkle up his little cat mouth in annoyance. “Because they want truthful answers, of course.”
“But can’t they just make us do whatever they want?” I touched the ribbed thing behind my ear. “By putting some kind of controller in with this language thing?”
He blinked the cat eyes at me. “Controller?”
“Like the one the Beloved Leaders implanted in you,” I explained. “So you would have to do whatever they wanted.”
He made an indignant noise and stood up straight on his tiny legs, glaring at me. “You are so stupid, Agent Dannerman! Why do you think I have a controller implanted in me by the Beloved Leaders?”
I looked at him in surprise. “Don’t you?”
“Of course not! There is no need for that! I am a rational being, as are all of my people, and so we know where our interests lie.” His pursy little mouth was twitching and his plume was angry red, but then he calmed down enough to explain. “The bearers which you call Docs do require such devices to be of value to the Beloved Leaders, because they are very willful beings. The warriors also need to be controlled. The reason for this is that in the course of their duties many of them must inevitably be dispatched to the Eschaton. Although they have been informed that this ‘death’ is actually a boon, not a tragedy, their natures prevail. They are not able to rid themselves of their instinct for self-preservation which would interfere with their duties. For the rest of us servants of the Beloved Leaders, my people included, self-interest takes a different form. We are glad to obey the Beloved Leaders, because we know what they can do to us if we fail them.” He didn’t seem sleepy anymore, just scared. His plume faded to a bilious green as he said, “You do not know the Beloved Leaders, Agent Dannerman. You have never even seen one. I have been more fortunate-not once, but three times. One even spoke to me, though not in person, of course. It was while I was monitoring your planet from the orbiter Starlab, and a Beloved Leader addressed me on a screen to give me an order. I was very frightened, Agent Dannerman. If you are not also frightened, it is because you do not understand the immensity of their power, or the consequences of their wrath. Do you really think your pitiful little planet can withstand the Beloved Leaders? It cannot. As I have told you, you are a fool. Their scout vessels found your Earth once. They will find it again, if indeed they have not already done so.
“It is true that these evil Horch and their machines are also extremely powerful. I do not think they will prevail against the Beloved Leaders, though. When the Eschaton comes, I believe it is the Beloved Leaders who will rule. Rule all of us. For eternity. And oh, Agent Dannerman, I have failed them, and so I am very, very frightened of what that eternity will be.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
That was the end of Dopey’s conversation. He put his head under his plume again and kept it there. I thought I heard him sobbing for a few moments, but then he was quiet.
I fell asleep then, too, not because I wanted to but because I couldn’t help it. When the green-glass machine woke me up Dopey was still in his corner, making the faint, muffled snickering sound that did him for snoring, and an idea was forming in my mind.
I didn’t have much time to think it out, because Greenie was already snaking one branch of its twiglets under my right arm to get me up, then hustling me back to the interrogation room. But on the way I remembered doctrine.
Basic Bureau tradecraft said that if you couldn’t get your interrogators to give you the information you wanted, perhaps you could at least lead the questioning in such a way that even the questions were informative. In practice sessions, back in my training days, it had seemed like something that might work. I’d never tried it in the field, but it was worth a shot. It was something to do, when the only alternative was simply to give up.
It seemed that the machines had heard all they wanted to hear about the Scuzzhawks. Now the topic of the day was sex. What did sexual intercourse feel like? If it was pleasurable, why did some human beings deprive themselves of it? How often had I had sexual intercourse, and under what circumstances, and with what persons, and why? Why was sexual intercourse with another person preferable to masturbation? What forms of sexual experience other than direct stimulation existed, and what did I mean by “fetishism” and “masochism”? How was it possible that some of my conspecifics could achieve sexual gratification just by inflicting pain on others?
I did what I could. I answered e
very question, and tacked on a little question to each answer. Masturbation: didn’t the Horch masturbate? Hugging and kissing: I supposed the Horch had their equivalents. And didn’t some Horch get a charge out of hurting other Horch? Without exception, none of my questions got an answer. Mostly they were ignored. Sometimes Greenie cautioned me to stick to straight responses. Twice it gestured toward the porcelain box that held the helmet, which was enough.
And the questioning went on and on. When it stopped at last it was only long enough for me to relieve myself and cram down a few bites of food, and then it started again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I don’t know how long the interrogation sessions went on. I tried to keep count of them, but there wasn’t much point to that. The number didn’t tell me much, because I had no good measure of how many hours each lasted, or how long I was allowed to sleep when I did. I didn’t know, either, whether it really mattered for me to keep on sounding the walls, trying to peer past the doors when they were opened, even, once, deliberately falling against one of the Christmas trees to see how they felt. (They didn’t feel like anything I had expected. No needle stabs, no feeling of chill glass spikes against my skin; the thing caught me and cradled me as though in an instantly created form-fitting basket of its twigs and set me back on my feet, and I had learned nothing at all.)
I wished for Dopey’s presence so I could ask him more questions. That didn’t happen often. We seemed to be on different schedules; once when Green-glass woke me up I caught a glimpse of him, sound asleep. But when I was allowed back in the biological-needs room he was gone.
The Far Shore of Time e-3 Page 2
