Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  McCain looked down and carried on eating his stew in silence. He’d listened to the answers, and he didn’t believe any of them. The curious thing was that he’d watched the people giving the answers, and he didn’t think they believed them any more than he did. But they were safe answers. The simple fact was that nobody in the place trusted anybody.

  Maybe that was the whole idea.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  McCain sat at one end of the center-aisle table in the front section of the billet, contemplating the diagram that he had been sketching. On the top bunk behind him, Mungabo was admiring a new addition to his collection of lascivious pinups. Mungabo’s passion for Americana—an attitude that had done little to improve his credibility with the KGB at his court-martial—it turned out, derived from his dream of the kind of life he’d seen blacks living in American porno movies, which he took to be representative of the typical New England suburban social scene.

  “Hey, Lew, waddya say to this for a piece of pink-shot?” he called down dreamily. “Isn’t that the horniest thing you’ve ever seen in your life? Did you ever make it with a chick like that back in the States?”

  “All the time,” McCain drawled over his shoulder. “They come as extras with the hotel rooms. Hell, I did better’n that while I was at college.” Mungabo sighed and stared agonizedly at the picture. He’d never understood why the Russians wanted to take over the West if they got the chance. Now it was all starting to make much more sense.

  McCain’s sketch was of the system of mirrors by which sunlight illuminated the interior of the colony. It had begun with an idea that Scanlon had mentioned first in the machine shop. Scanlon had tried drawing it but didn’t have enough knowledge of the details, whereas McCain had the benefit of the information he’d memorized for the mission.

  The first component of the system was a large, annular, primary mirror that hung detached in space a mile away along the colony’s axis, looking like an enormous version of an ophthalmoscope, which old-time eye doctors wore on their foreheads. It produced a ring-section beam of reflected sunlight—a tube, like a hollow tree-trunk—and according to the relative motions of the Earth-Moon-Sun system could be steered by thrusters to keep the beam trained down on the axis, onto the hub. Here the beam encountered a ring of plane secondary mirrors around the hub, which relayed the light radially outward to the roof of the outer torus, where an arrangement of louvered reflecting slats admitted visible light and heat, but blocked cosmic rays. The secondary mirrors could be tilted independently to illuminate or darken different parts of the torus as required.

  The path that a ray of light followed was thus from the Sun to the primary mirror, from there down the axis to a secondary mirror, and after a couple more reflections in the chevron-section roof slats, down to a point somewhere on the “ground” inside. Scanlon’s thought was that if a laser were aimed at the roof from the ground inside, its beam ought to trace the same optical path, but in the opposite direction. In other words, it might offer a means of communicating information out. The problem, of course, was that whoever the information was intended for would have to be looking for it, which presupposed that some other way of talking to them existed in the first place. Besides, Scanlon wasn’t even sure if the idea was feasible, and McCain didn’t know either. This would be more in Paula’s line.

  He sat back, chewing his pencil while he watched Haber and Rashazzi over by the bunk on the far side, fiddling with an improvised contraption of lenses and mirrors. They seemed to have access to an inexhaustible number of sources of components and materials for the Rube Goldberg gadgets that they made to demonstrate the incomprehensible things they talked about. Those two would know if the idea was feasible, McCain thought. But how was he to broach the subject? His instincts told him that they, if any in the billet, were clean; the problem would be convincing them that he was.

  He was certain now in his own mind that Rashazzi was no biologist, although the Israeli kept cages of mice in the washroom at the back of the billet, which he told Luchenko were for breeding experiments. But on one or two occasions he had used figures of speech that were straight from the specialist jargon that McCain was used to hearing around the Pentagon—such as “eggbuster,” for an X-ray battle laser tuned to vaporize the hardened shells of warhead reentry vehicles. He was pretty sure that Razz was a defense scientist of some kind.

  He hadn’t formed any clear impression of what Haber was. All Haber had told him was that he’d been apprehended in Moscow and accused of receiving Soviet military secrets during an exchange visit. From his varied topics of conversation, he seemed to be one of those all-rounders from the grand old classical school of scientists.

  The problem was the universal mistrust. Fostering mutual suspicion among enemies and subjects was the traditional Russian way of making organized opposition all but impossible. And it was also part of the traditional Russian character to submit, which was one reason why totalitarianism had survived there for a century. But McCain was not a Russian, and it wasn’t in his nature to conform to other people’s ideas of how he should behave. He needed some way—even if just a token—of defying the system. But how? Escape, the usual outlet for such urges in this kind of situation, was surely impossible. Blind rage and destruction was hardly his style. What else was there? Whatever he came up with, he’d have to start finding out pretty soon who his friends were.

  “If Americans designed a space colony, it wouldn’t be like this one, would it, Lew?” Mungabo said from the bunk behind. “It wouldn’t be all antiseptic.”

  The question caught McCain far away in his reverie. “What? . . . I don’t know. What do you mean, antiseptic?”

  “Look around at the towns and places. Everybody lives in nice, clean, respectable boxes, and does nice, clean, respectable jobs, and they play healthy games in the parks, and the kids sit in lines in nice schools. . . . You see, it’s all the perfect picture of an academic professor’s or some social-work counselor’s idea of how other people oughta live. Except nobody asked the people. It’s like living in a museum. . . . How can anyone have fun being a respectable social statistic?”

  McCain half-turned and rested an elbow on the back of the chair. “How would you change it if it were up to you?”

  “Hell, I’d add a bit of nightlife to them squeaky-clean towns they’ve got out there—a few bars, maybe some strip joints, the things that make real cities cities. Give people a chance to be honest-to-God, flesh-and-blood people, know what I mean? That’s how Americans would have done it, right?”

  “Maybe,” McCain said. “It goes to extremes both ways, I guess.”

  “I remember when I was a kid growing up in Ziganda, we had this preacher came all the way from Boston to save us from hell,” Mungabo said. “He told us that America was God’s second chosen nation. And do you know how he figured that?”

  “How?”

  “He said it was a revelation because ‘USA’ was right there inside ‘Jerusalem.’ Ain’t that something?”

  McCain blinked, looked back over his shoulder, and thought for a moment. “Was that the same God that put the ass in Massachusetts?”

  Mungabo threw back his head and laughed. “Can’t say I know about that. But you know, Lew, that whole business that guys like him talk about—it always struck me as the neatest con operation that anyone ever dreamed up. I mean, they’re selling eternity, and your payoff in some hereafter, right? Well, that keeps ’em all pretty safe from complaints by dissatisfied customers, don’t it—or from being sued because they didn’t deliver? When did the last person come back and tell everyone it ain’t the way they were told it is?”

  “Well, I guess it’s not my problem,” McCain said. “It’s not something I ever did buy any stock in.”

  Razz, Haber, Mungabo, and Scanlon were probably okay, McCain had decided. What about Koh? . . . He still wasn’t sure. As proverbially impenetrable as the Chinese side of him, Koh was a philosophical observer of life—and hence of everybody and everyt
hing—with innumerable ancestors, and living relatives seemingly everywhere on Earth. Nobody knew how he had come to be in Zamork. McCain had heard some say he was an obvious plant; and others that no plant would be that obvious.

  What about the rest? McCain turned in his chair and surveyed the billet. Nolan was too transparent. He had to be the decoy. So who was the real one? Luchenko, of course, was excluded from the list of potential allies. Along with Luchenko, McCain eliminated the rest of the group that seemed to form a constellation around him at the far end, which apart from Nolan and the Bulgarian Maiskevik, included Borowski, a Pole, and a morose Frenchman called Taugin.

  And yet, for all that watching and listening was part of the foremen’s job, McCain was discovering that they could, usually for a price, be surprisingly ready to turn a blind eye to some of the things that went on. The underground distillery trade and black market with the towns, for example, couldn’t have existed without their knowing; and he’d heard of one instance where the foreman of another billet had cooperated in covering a prisoner’s absence from work. Why would a foreman put his own privileges at risk when there was nothing to gain? It wouldn’t make sense. So in reality it had to be a covert part of their job. If that were true, then the security precautions and detention-style discipline were to a large degree a superficiality carried out for effect—a charade to satisfy expectations. What did that mean?

  “Uh-uh. Shouldn’t have taken the name in vain,” Mungabo’s voice murmured behind him. Nolan was approaching through the next section, where Smovak and Vorghas were engrossed over a game of chess. He sat down at the end of the table a couple of places from McCain. McCain folded the papers he had been drawing on and tucked them into his jacket pocket.

  “How are you finding things?” Nolan inquired casually.

  “I’ve seen better.”

  “The place isn’t so bad?”

  “On the whole, I’ll take Manhattan. You never give up, do you?”

  Smovak looked up from the next table and groaned. “Oh God, you two aren’t starting all that again, are you? Look, I’ll tell you what the difference between capitalism and communism is. With capitalism, man exploits man; with communism it’s the other way round. See? Ha-ha-ha!”

  “I just want you to see that it isn’t all black and white,” Nolan said.

  “I never said it was,” McCain answered. “But I do know that where I come from, you live how you want, you go where you want, and you say what you want, without needing a permit from any commissar. And US soldiers don’t shoot US citizens in the back for trying to leave the country. That mightn’t be black and white to you, but it’s getting pretty close for me.”

  “But what about the inequities, the injustice . . .”

  “Unlike in the classless society? Oh sure. Everyone in Moscow drives a Cadillac?”

  “Crass materialism. The cravings of greed. Can’t you see that it’s competition and rivalry that lead to conflict? Such things can’t be permitted in today’s world. We must impose harmony, which can only come through serving the collective good. Peace must be objective, at any price. If we fail in that, then everything else is lost anyway. You must agree with that.”

  “No objective is worth any price,” McCain said.

  “Not even preventing a global nuclear war?”

  McCain shook his head. “No.”

  Nolan stared disbelievingly. “What price could conceivably be too high to pay for that?”

  “Submitting to the kinds of things that some people have had inflicted on them in recent times,” McCain said. “If it meant seeing kids being put into gas chambers by thugs, I’d rather fight and risk the consequences. If it meant having innocent people dragged from their homes to be worked to death as slave labor, I’d rather fight. If it meant giving up the right to be me, I’d rather fight.” He sat back in his chair and regarded Nolan oddly for a couple of seconds. “I don’t understand what it is with people like you. You come from the best-fed, best-educated, healthiest country, that gives you more opportunity than anywhere, anytime in history, and you want to tear it down. . . . Where d’you come from, out of curiosity? Want me to guess? Pretty-well-off family, was it? Was that the problem—you felt guilty because you were rich in a world where not everyone was rich?” McCain saw a flicker of discomfort cross Nolan’s countenance. He nodded. “Well, you could always have made yourself feel better by giving it away. But that wasn’t good enough, was it? Everybody else had to be made to give theirs away, too, so you could be equal.” Smovak and Vorghas were watching from the next table; Rashazzi and Haber were listening, also. At that moment the door opened and Scanlon came in. He stopped when he saw them all watching McCain. McCain went on, “It was rage and envy against a world that didn’t need people like you. You didn’t have anything to offer that people wanted freely, by choice. So get rid of freedom, eh? We’ll make them take notice of us. Pull down the system, paint everybody gray, and we can all be happy nobodies together.” He got up and turned away to go back to his bunk. “Fuck you, Nolan. We’ll keep our bombs. If you think you can take what we’ve built, come on and try. But don’t try selling me a guilt trip that says it’s my duty to give it away.”

  Nolan stood up flushed and tight-lipped, and marched toward the door without saying anything. The light above came on, the beeper beeped, and he was gone. The two scientists stared for a moment longer and returned to what they had been doing.

  “Hear, hear,” Smovak murmured barely above his breath, and looked back at the chess game. Mungabo was cackling delightedly in the top bunk by McCain. Scanlon moved over to his own bunk opposite and sat down. “I see ye’ve been getting a piece o’ the indoctrination,” he said to McCain.

  “Doesn’t he ever quit?” McCain asked.

  “He’s worse with the new fellas,” Scanlon said. “Either he makes a friend, or he shuts up . . .” he nodded at McCain, “and sometimes somebody shuts him up. It’s a little peace we’ll all be having for a while now, I’m thinkin’.” Scanlon watched until McCain turned his head toward him, then pulled the top of his jacket aside to reveal the top of a metal flask. He winked, and his voice fell to a whisper. “From a little still that somebody’s got running in a place I won’t mention. As good as poteen, but I can’t vouch for how well it compares to your own mountain dew. Maybe a drop or two later, eh?”

  “Sure. Is there a price?”

  “Oh, let’s say it’s on credit. When I need a favor, I’ll let you know.” Scanlon scratched the side of his nose pensively. “But then again, from the tail end of what I just heard, I’d say you’ve already earned it.”

  “Well, I never argue with a guy who’s buying.”

  Scanlon gave McCain a long, curious look, as if weighing him up. “And it’s not as if that system of theirs is anything for himself to be getting so excited about.”

  McCain looked uncertain. “What system? You mean Nolan? The Russian system?”

  “Ah, sure, and what else would I be talking about?” McCain frowned, wondering what this had to do with anything. Scanlon rolled his eyes pointedly, indicating that walls had ears.

  “They don’t trust anyone, either,” McCain replied, nodding to show that he understood. “It’s kind of a conditioned reflex. Did you know that Tolstoy’s serfs didn’t want him to free them when he tried? They thought it was a trick. They wouldn’t have a school either. They said the only reason he wanted to educate the kids was to sell them to the czar as foot soldiers.”

  Scanlon shook his head solemnly. “That’s terrible, now.”

  “I wonder what does it.”

  “Centuries of living under rapacious rulers,” Scanlon said. “A system that did nothing to discourage exploitation.”

  “You mean like the Brits?”

  Scanlon stared back fixedly for a moment. “Let’s go for a walk outside,” he suggested.

  “It seems to me that you’re already well on your way to understanding the way things are in Zamork, Lew,” Scanlon said. “I’ve a feeling
you’re from some kind of background that hasn’t exactly made you a newcomer to such things, but what it might be I’ll leave as your business.” They had come out through the door at the rear of the B Block mess area into the general compound, which contained its usual evening crowd of gray-clad figures standing, walking, talking, watching. “What do you make of the place so far?”

  “Strange kind of a prison,” McCain answered.

  “It is that. And have ye had any thoughts as to why that might be?”

  McCain could see nothing to lose by being frank. “It’s an information mine,” he said.

  “Now there’s an interesting thought,” Scanlon answered.

  “Mines have miners in them. Also, there has to be something to dig. But in this mine it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  For McCain’s conclusion was that the whole place was set up for the gathering of sensitive information—the practice of which had always been a Russian passion. From foreign intelligence operatives like himself to Russian domestic dissidents, Zamork was full of people who knew a lot about the enemies of the regime at home and abroad, and their intentions—a priceless trove of information to be gathered. It followed that the place would also be full of others put there to do the gathering. He was unlikely to be the first to have arrived at such a conclusion, and no doubt that was why nobody trusted anybody. The theory fitted, too, with the laxness in discipline beneath the superficial pretense: the authorities wanted the inmates to mix, talk, and go through the motions of defying the system—and the looser their tongues became in the process, the better.

  They passed a group practicing gymnastics on homemade equipment, and Scanlon steered McCain toward a gathering in the center, where an improvised choir a dozen or so strong was delivering a hearty rendering of a Romanian folk song. “Well, Mr. Earnshaw or whoever you really are, I’ve decided to take a chance on ye.” He had to lean close to McCain and shout into his ear to be heard. McCain noticed that most of the others around them were behaving similarly and taking no notice of the singing whatever. He smiled faintly as the meaning of the choir dawned on him.