Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 3 - Politician

by Anthony, Piers

  Chapter 5 — DORIAN GRAY

  They brought me into the painful light again and cleaned me up for another interview. "Do you remember any more?" the interrogator inquired.

  Did I remember more? Most of my first year on the planet of Jupiter had suddenly been revealed to me. Now I knew that it was the arena of politics I had entered after my departure from the Navy. It had all been triggered by the key word MEGAN. Somehow I had prepared myself to respond in that manner to that key word, when I understood that it was a key, much as a computer will respond to the touch on a particular button only when programmed to do so. But this new memory I surely had to conceal from my captors, for it was well within the range they believed they had erased.

  "Some more," I said guardedly, glancing at the pain-box.

  "Your military service."

  Oh. I concentrated on that. "Yes, I went through basic training. There was a girl, Juana—I shared quarters with her. She was a Hispanic refugee, like me. A very nice, very pretty young woman. But I had to leave her, when..." I found that the tremendous volume of experience triggered by the word Megan was an isolated thing; my military experience remained at the prior pace of recovery. Except that, as if it were a glimpse into the future, I knew I had married more than once and left the service with the rank of captain. I just had no memory of how I had achieved it. Perhaps there was a key term to evoke that experience. But it seemed that my prior self had not wished me to have that information at this stage, and I had to trust the judgment of that self. Thus my Navy memories were returning at the normal crawl permitted by recovery from the mem-wash; it would probably take months to cover the fifteen years or so I had evidently spent there.

  "You like women?" Scar asked.

  I was somewhat taken aback by this seeming camaraderie, "Yes," I answered.

  "How do you feel?"

  I considered that. "Low," I concluded.

  "Nauseous?"

  "No. Just low." The malaise had developed slowly, so that only now did I realize I had it.

  "Try this," he said, bringing me another cup of the beverage he had given me before.

  I drank it without protest. I knew he would torture me with the pain-box if I did not, but also I welcomed this distraction from the subject of my returning memories. In a moment I began to feel better, physically. "Yes, good," i said. "What is it?"

  He shrugged. "Merely an upper. You will have all you want, if you cooperate with us."

  "But I don't know what you want of me," I said plaintively.

  "Merely your cooperation," he said. "A positive attitude. With that, all else is possible."

  Just as I had endeavored to gain the positive attitude of Megan. This man evidently wanted a lot more of me than I would ordinarily give. But this was not the time to arouse his suspicion. "Anything you want," I agreed.

  "First, a lesson-session," he said.

  He brought me simple gray clothing—shirt, trousers, slippers—and I donned it, relieved that the pain-box had not been invoked. I felt much better now; clothing has a strong psychological effect. But, of course, the drug contributed considerably, though the high did not seem to be as strong as it had been before. Maybe they had given me a weaker dose. I didn't like getting drugged, but I still didn't see any point in resisting. They would do with my body as they wished. And there was something from my Megan memory—a reference to my supposed immunity to addiction. Could that be true?

  We entered a separate chamber where there was a tiny library of books and two easy chairs. I was told to sit down. It was a luxury to inhabit such a chair after the hard and filthy floor of my dark cell.

  "Do you remember how the present political order came about?" the man asked me, taking the other chair. It was easy to imagine that we were merely two acquaintances indulging in a postprandial conversation. But I had not forgotten the dark cell or the pain-box—nor was I intended to. This was a technique I recognized: the carrot and the stick.

  I focused on the question. "The—the nations of Earth laid claim to the properties of the Solar System, in accordance with their representations on the mother planet," I said, as my early education came back to me. "When the gee-shield made System colonization feasible, there was an agreement in the old United Nations, now called the United Planets. They tried to do it very fairly, so there would be no war in space." I paused to smile, and Scar smiled with me. We both knew that there were as many wars in space as there had been on Earth, so that this aspect of the compromise had been a foolish dream. Man had exported his nature with his technology. "The nations of old Europe took the planet Uranus, with its moons and rings, and set up governments like those they had on Earth, along with their individual languages and cultures. The Asian nations took over Saturn, with its more spectacular moons and rings, and the American nations got the big prize, Jupiter. The Africans got the hot planets; Mercury and Venus. Of course, the pattern isn't perfect, but in a general way it is true that the contemporary political Solar System resembles the planet of prediaspora Earth, but on a larger scale. The languages, the cultures, even the histories conform to a remarkable extent. The two Solar wars—"

  "Do you approve of war as an instrument of political policy?"

  That brought me up short. "I don't really know," I confessed. "I suppose it depends on the situation. Certainly there have been unjust or foolish wars, and war is certainly one of the most dangerous and costly ways to settle differences. But when the Deutsch Reich of Uranus set out to conquer that planet and Saturn, too, what was there to do but make war to stop it?"

  "You believe in the existing order, then?"

  "Well, I'm not sure about that. As long as the existing order tolerates piracy in space—"

  "The pirates are gone," he said. "You had a hand in that, Hubris."

  "I did?" Almost, I remembered it directly, instead of as the memory of a statement made in the time of my introduction to life on Jupiter. Hero of the Belt! "I'm glad. They had to be extirpated."

  "By lawful means," he said.

  "Certainly." What was he getting at? Did this have something to do with my confinement here? Could I have broken the law and required rather special rehabilitation? No, that did not seem likely.

  "The existing government of Jupiter is working to solve the problems of the day," he said. "Do you believe that?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. I don't remember the current government. That is, which party is in power, or who is President now. When I was a refugee in space, the government seemed to have no interest in dealing with the problems of refugees or the eradication of piracy. But that was... I think it must have been some time ago. Maybe it's better now. Certainly the Jupiter system of government is a good one, perhaps the best in a flawed Solar System. But—"

  "That's enough," he said, and terminated the interview.

  I was not returned to my dark and stinking cell. Instead I was conducted to a larger, brighter one, with a conventional hammock and a lavatory facility. What an improvement! Evidently I had pleased my captors, and this was my reward.

  What had I said to please them? I had only described the contemporary Solar System, which was familiar to all school children, and expressed my support for the type of government Jupiter possessed, with my reservations for specific practices. Why should that deserve reward?

  Had I become a revolutionist, trying to overthrow the system? If so, I could hardly protest my fate. But this treatment seemed overly harsh and secretive—and why should anyone bother to rehabilitate a revolutionary? At any rate, I did appreciate my improved quarters and would try to continue pleasing my captors. Clean, clothed, comfortable—what more could I ask?

  Freedom, I answered myself mentally. But I knew that wish was useless.

  Apart from that, I lacked entertainment. There were no books, no holo units, not even any old-fashioned board games. And no one with whom to play them.

  Ah, there was the crux! Companionship! It was hard to be continually alone.

  Still, I knew when I was r
elatively well off. I lay on the hammock and contemplated the patterns in the paint on the ceiling of the chamber and slept.

  I dreamed of Annabel Lee, who had lived in a kingdom by the sea:

  And this maiden she lived with no other thought

  Than to love and be loved by me.

  My memory of Helse, of course. Every so often she visited me, though she was long dead, and I always appreciated it.

  In due course a meal was brought. This time it was on a tray, and there was variety: some sort of juice, mashed protein mix, and a pastry. Royal treatment indeed—all because I had expressed support for the present order?

  I finished, used the lavatory, and sat on the hammock. Now that my lot had improved, I was bored. My feeling of malaise was returning. Why should this be?

  I thought about it, and the answer came: The drug they had given me to drink was wearing off. I was suffering withdrawal. So much for being immune!

  Restlessly I paced the cell, trying to abate the discomfort. It wasn't actually extreme, but something prompted me to make a show. They were trying to addict me, to make me malleable; suppose they realized that the effect was uncomfortable but not truly compulsive? If my immunity was working partially, it was better to persuade them otherwise.

  Soon Scar appeared. "What is your problem, Hubris?"

  "That drink," I said. "Could I have another—now?"

  He smiled. "Indeed." He departed and returned in a moment with the drink. I took it and gulped it down eagerly. Point made.

  I was left alone again. The euphoria of the drug took me, more mildly than before, so that instead of enjoying it I remained bored. Apparently my immunity was a slowly developing thing, cutting down the highs and lows with greater facility as time went on. Good enough; I had caught the hint in time to conceal the nature of my resistance to the drug.

  I explored my cell. It was about eight feet by twelve feet, with a ceiling of eight feet. That was palatial, for a sub. The hammock was at one end, the lavatory section at the other, the door in the middle. The walls were featureless, and I didn't dare scratch them, knowing that my marks would immediately be apparent. No secret codes here.

  There was a glassy window in the door, really a narrow slit that sufficed only to allow the captor to observe the captive. All I could see from inside the cell was a segment of the access passage, and the door to the opposite cell, with its own vision slit. Not much to entertain me there.

  Yet I looked. In fact, I stared, having nothing to do. I oriented on that opposite portal as if it were my gateway to escape.

  I don't know how long I remained there, staring. Certainly my vision fogged, and perhaps I slept. But abruptly I spied an eye in the opposite slit. There was another prisoner there.

  This transformed my awareness. I had company. Oh, I couldn't talk with him or shake his hand or even see him clearly; the window allowed little more than one eye and a vertical slice of face to show through. But he was a fellow captive, and that made up for the inadequacy of appearance.

  He saw me, too, for his eye locked gazes with mine, and then he winked. I winked back. We had established communication. Oh, no words, no written message, but communication nonetheless. It was enormously gratifying to have a companion in isolation, as it were, even without words.

  Then a guard came, and we had to get away from the window slits. But the guard only turned out the lights—for night—and departed. We were alone again.

  I returned to my hammock, as there was nothing to be seen in the dark. But the lingering effect of the drug kept me hyped up. Now that I knew I had company I could not be satisfied with ignorance. I had to know more about him. Why was he here? Had he been memory-washed, confined in filth, and tortured? Did he know anything about our captors or our prospects for release? It didn't matter what the answers were; I simply had to know.

  I considered the door. My prior cell had had a sliding panel that bolted tightly in place; no hope for escape. But this one had a regular door catch, the kind that was slanted on one side and slid into place because of a spring. Child's play to force that open. Why the superior mechanisms of recent centuries had not been employed was a mystery; I conjectured that this vessel had begun its career as a yacht, with deliberately archaic furnishings and mechanisms as a signal of status, and later converted into a sub. At any rate, this was a major break for me, as my military training had schooled me in lock-picking, among other things. All I needed was a bit of wire or metal.

  Well, I had left my rivet in the other cell—and, anyway, I wasn't sure that was suitable for this. It was too small. What else offered?

  I checked my new clothing. It was soft, without buttons or stays. I might have used an eating utensil, but that was gone with the meal tray.

  I got up to find the sanitary unit in the darkness—what a blessing that was, in contrast to my prior circumstance!—and as I used it I realized that this could be the answer. The unit was standard for spacecraft: a tube leading away into a central processing apparatus, a moderate suction conveying solids and liquids there. In free-fall it tended to be more complicated, and primitive ships required separate facilities for solid and liquid wastes. But evidently this ship maintained centrifugal gee steadily enough to warrant more conventional facilities. The toilet was sealed by an airtight panel; the unit was flushed when a lever was operated to slide the panel momentarily aside, allowing the gee and suction to draw the refuse down.

  Sure enough, I was able to unscrew part of the connecting rod and detach it. I had my instrument!

  I paused. Was I under observation, here in the cell? Well, I might be, but if I was, why did my captors need to lock me in? Probably they could monitor me but didn't bother unless there seemed to be immediate reason. There might be a continuing holo-tape of activity within this cell, but it would be a boring job reviewing that tape. After a while the clerk in charge would get slack and leave it to the computer. The behavior patterns of human beings were so strange as to defy computer analysis, however, so probably this action of mine would not be called out as either an attempt to escape or an attempt to commit suicide.

  At any rate, if I allowed the fear of observation to restrain me, I was captive indeed! I would take my action and discover what the consequence was. Some risk had to be taken, in order to gain. I used the thin rod to jam open the door latch, then pulled the door in to me. It swung on armored hinges, proof against any tampering except what I had done. Designers tend to overlook the obvious.

  I peeked out into the dark hall. I saw nothing, of course—and trusted that no one could see me. Infrared light could do it, but again, why bother when the doors were locked? I started to step out and paused again. What about an alarm?

  Again, why use a lock, if a laser alarm system was in place? It could be done and should be done, but probably wasn't. I decided to risk it.

  I moved into the hall. Nothing happened. That did not necessarily mean there was no alarm; it could be silent, a light blinking elsewhere in the ship. If so, I would soon be in trouble.

  I waited. Nothing happened. Apparently my captors were asleep, and there was no alarm. I deemed that to be criminally careless. Maybe they just weren't worried, knowing that I could not escape from the sub no matter how cunning I might be. Captors do tend to underestimate the potentials of captives, perhaps assuming that natural selection accounts for the roles.

  Meanwhile, I felt deliriously free. Certainly I remained trapped in the sub and subject to the will of my captors, but I had achieved a measure of independence they had not granted me. I was, to this limited extent, master of my destiny. That did great things for my self-esteem.

  I did not bother to walk down the passage; I knew the cell block was sealed off by airlock, not simple gates. If I broke that I would really be testing my luck. I closed my door, then went instead to the cell door opposite mine. I knocked.

  There was no response. I knocked again, not loudly, sure that the inmate heard me. He would be wondering what was happening, assuming that it
was a guard, puzzled because the lights had not been turned on.

  I knocked a third time. At last there was a response—a hesitant return knock. I tapped on the window, then used my rod to work the latch. In a moment the door swung open.

  "Make no sound," I whispered. "I'm from the other cell. I used the bar on the sanitary fixture to jimmy the lock."

  After a moment a hand touched mine. Fingers caught me, drawing me in. I went and quietly closed the door behind me. If any guard made a spot check all would seem to be in order. He would have to turn on the lights and peer into the cells to discover that I had moved.

  "This is folly," my fellow-prisoner said, alarmed.

  I froze in surprise. Those words showed me two things. First, my companion was Hispanic, like me, for they had been spoken in Spanish. Second, my companion was female.

  "A woman?" I asked in Spanish. I realized that I had not been able to see enough of the face through the two window slits to identify gender; I had merely assumed male. I myself had missed an obvious alternative.

  "All my life," she agreed. "What I can remember of it."

  "Memory-washed?"

  "Yes. You?"

  "The same."

  We paused, there in the darkness. After a moment she said, "What if they catch you here?"

  "What can they do to me that they haven't already?"

  "But you must go back to your cell soon, so they don't know."

  "Why?"

  "Because if they catch you, they'll see that we never meet again."

  There was that. To be effectively deprived of company now that I had found it—that would be torture indeed. "Soon," I agreed. There was risk, but I had to get to know her better.

  "I—hardly know you," she said. "I can't see you at all. May I... may I touch you? Your face, so I can recognize you?"

  "Touch me anywhere," I said generously. I had not considered what I might do after reaching my fellow captive and remained surprised that it was a woman.