by Ben Bova
“All right, then.” He attempted a smile, with little success. “Take care.” The Emperor’s image faded away.
Adela fell heavily into the chair facing the holoframe, thinking, Where are you? Are you in the room next to me? Above or below me? Are you watching me now, listening to my every word even as I talk to your Emperor?
“Damn you!” she shouted to the confining walls around her, hoping that the IPC agents were monitoring the room. “Damn you to hell!”
She sat motionless in the chair for nearly half an hour until deciding, on a sudden impulse, to reactivate the holoframe.
“Ma’am?” the softly feminine system voice inquired.
“Set up a real-time link to the Scartaris at her current coordinates at Tsing.”
It took several minutes for the correct links to be made before the system confirmed that a solid connection had been established. “Ready.” The voice that emanated from the system this time was different, indicating that she had indeed reached the ship now in orbit at Tsing. “To whom would you like to speak?”
“Connect me with Commander Wood.”
A pause. “I’m sorry, but direct communication to Commander Wood must first be arranged through—”
“System, interrupt,” she said, cutting off the Scartaris’ security programming. “Scan files for my voice authorization code.”
Another pause, then, “One moment.”
A full minute passed before Lewis’ holographic image appeared in the frame, his tousled hair and the casual pullover he wore indicating that he had been trying to get some rest. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he needed it, and Adela felt a moment’s regret for calling him so hastily.
“Grandmother?” He blinked at the brightness in the room around him as a look of sudden concern flooded over his features. “What—? Is everything all right there?”
“I’m sorry, Lewis, for the intrusion,” she said contritely. “I should have considered the difference in time when I—”
“No, no; it’s all right.” He shook his head tiredly and waved a hand to dismiss the transgression. “We’ve been on local time since exit,” he said, smiling warmly. “It’s good to get the chance to talk to you. I’m looking forward to meeting you—personally, I mean, not on the link … .” He paused, wrinkling his brow wearily as he tried to remember her flight schedule. The mannerism reminded her of Javas. “Let’s see, you’ll be here in just a few days, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s right. I’m looking forward to getting to know both you and Brendan, too.” She hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “Lewis, I’d like to ask a favor of you. Since we’re almost there, would it be possible for you to recall the IPC agents your father has assigned?”
His face suddenly turned dour, taking on the same obstinate appearance Eric’s had displayed earlier.
“Father told me weeks ago to expect this,” he replied bluntly. “We had planned to discuss this once you had arrived, but he said it would ultimately be my call. But frankly, I agree with him.” He pursed his lips momentarily, but his eyes never blinked as he stared out of the holoframe.
“No. I will not recall the IPC team.”
17
A CHANGE OF PLANS
“I’m being drugged.”
Dr. Templeton Rice sat morosely in the only chair his room offered, his head leaning dejectedly against his fist. The room was comfortable and nicely appointed, considerably nicer than the recovery room in which he had awakened two days earlier.
He hadn’t intended to say the words aloud, although he spoke so softly that anyone not within a meter of him wouldn’t have noticed he’d said anything at all. He assumed he was being watched, or at least monitored audibly, but he didn’t think his slip could be heard by the room system. If he was wrong, well, he’d deal with it.
How much time had really passed since he’d been here on the orbital? He had seen little of the medical facility, let alone any other portion of the orbital habitat. This room, part of a suite that also included an exercise chamber, a small examination room, an office workroom and the connecting corridors, had become his entire world. Not disagreeable if he were spending a short amount of time somewhere, especially in a hospital, but just how much time was he spending here? He looked around his room for any telltale sign that would give him some clue, but found nothing. Everything was in its proper place as far as he could tell, nothing changed from day to day. He rose from his chair and walked aimlessly, restlessly around the room, touching and moving objects at random looking for—what? Cobwebs? Dust outlines around the objects that would indicate just how long it had been?
There was no clock, no calendar, no terminal he could use even to time his own pulse, much less the passage of hours or days. There was a room system, of course, but it served only to control the environmental aspects of the room and would not grant him access to the main system. There had been no communications from outside, no news broadcasts, nothing that could indicate the passage of time.
He looked at his hands, turning them over and over, rubbing them together.
It seemed as if only two days had passed since his talk with Dr. Rapson, since he’d learned of Oidar’s untimely death. But it didn’t feel right, not at all. Somehow he knew that a longer time had passed, but there was nothing he could seize on that would prove it, even to himself, other than his own feelings. But even as he struggled with the thought, another feeling kept nagging at him: If he really was being drugged, if he was being kept asleep for long periods of time, what was the motive? Why would anyone want to deceive him in that way?
And still, he knew deep down that more than a few days, maybe even weeks, had passed. The doctor had said he’d been in stasis for three weeks when his pod was picked up. He’d been in stasis before, and how he had felt when waking up two days ago seemed right for a drug-induced stasis like the one that would have been part of the pod’s emergency system … . But it was hard to believe then, as it was now, that that much time had passed while he drifted in the pod. Maybe the time he’d spent here on the orbital station was accurate, and the time Rapson had claimed he drifted in the pod was a lie.
He fell heavily into the chair, the seat still warm from sitting in it moments earlier, and rubbed at his neck, stiff with tension and stress. Why would someone convince me I was asleep for three weeks, when I wasn’t, he thought, and then try to make me believe only two days had passed while I slept for a much longer period of time? He rubbed at his throbbing temples with both hands. It didn’t make any sense.
He leaned back in the chair and stared again at his hands, examining his fingernails. He had trimmed them himself shortly after waking up. After talking with Dr. Rapson and getting a good solid meal, he had showered and shaved. He remembered distinctly how refreshing it had been to wash off the stink of stasis, to remove the grimy stubble from his face. It had all seemed so real.
But his fingernails …
He experimentally dragged his fingertips across his face. He had shaved that morning, as he always did, and his fingertips played smoothly over the skin of his cheeks. He brushed his nails against his cheeks, noting the soft scratching sound, then delicately rubbed a thumbnail against the more sensitive skin of his lips. He repeated the action with his other thumbnail, then with each of his nails in turn.
They were too smooth.
Having trimmed them only the day before yesterday, they should still be rougher, with sharper edges—he had not used a nail file, only clippers. He held both hands before him, his fingers curled over his palms. His nails were just too nicely done, almost manicured.
It was possible. If someone was keeping him out for days at a time but wanted him to think he was adhering to a normal routine, it would be a fairly simple matter to trim his hair and shave him twenty or so hours before bringing him around. That way, he’d wake with what appeared to be a normal day’s growth of beard and shave himself, noticing nothing unusual, just as he had done these last two “mornings.” But
his fingernails were different. If they were to convince him that only two days had elapsed, they had to carefully trim his nails in such a way that he wouldn’t notice that more time had passed.
But why?
He rubbed his neck again, trying to work out some of the kinks that kept developing there.
He leaned back in the chair again and closed his eyes. Maybe he was going about this backward. Maybe, instead of trying to figure out why someone would have a motive to keep him asleep, he should concentrate on why someone wouldn’t want him awake. If weeks had truly passed, what would he be doing now? Surely he would be long gone from this facility, probably back on Luna or at the Academy. He might even be back at work at the sunstation with a new research team, or at least be making plans to rebuild his team and restart work on Mercury. He would certainly have filed a complete report on the deaths of Julie and Boscawen during the mutiny at the sunstation by now, and been debriefed by Imperial security. But if only two days had passed, there wouldn’t have been time for any of that—he’d merely be near the end of a short hospital stay, assuming that everything else would take place as soon as he could be picked up.
Was that it? Was he being fooled into thinking only a few days had passed so he wouldn’t insist on contacting the outside? So he wouldn’t suspect he was being detained for an extended period of time? He nodded. It made sense, except for one detail: If they wanted him quiet and unquestioning, why not just keep him in a drugged stasis around the clock? Why not put him in cryosleep, for that matter? That way he wouldn’t be a burden at all; no subterfuge, no intricate shaving and nail-trimming schemes, no careful isolation from anything that would tell him the time. They wouldn’t even have to feed him. Unless …
Unless they thought they might need him for something on short notice. But what? “Maybe it’s time to find out,” he said under his breath.
“System!” he called, getting to his feet. There was a confirming chirp. “I’m not feeling very well. Could I please summon Dr. Rapson.”
“I’m sorry,” came the synthesized reply, “but he is unavailable at the moment. Can you describe your discomfort?”
“It’s my stomach. I don’t think it’s anything serious; just a bit upset, is all.”
“I will notify one of the other physicians immediately of your request.”
Fine, he thought, moving into the corridor. Since leaving the recovery room where he first awoke, he had been given considerable freedom in his limited area, although the access doors at each end of the corridor were kept locked at all times. There was an examination room adjacent to the exercise chamber, and he tried to find something in it that he could use as a weapon. He kept his movements as inconspicuous as he could, hoping that if he was being watched it would appear he was just looking for something to relieve his upset stomach. The cabinets were locked, thumb-keyed, as were all the drawers. There were some lightweight plastic glasses stacked on the countertop, similar to several he already had back in his room, but he doubted if one could be broken into pieces suitable enough to use to threaten someone.
The brief search of the office proved just as fruitless. Like the examination room and his bedroom, the only things he could use as weapons were objects that he might throw. Frustrated, he decided to return to his room and find something that he might at least be able to conceal. But as he passed the darkened exercise chamber, he had a thought.
His muscles had been stiff since awakening and he had used the equipment here several times, and knew the machines and the layout of the room. He stepped inside and, guided only by the sparse lighting from the opened doorway, quickly approached the weight machine. There was a sliding pulley system on it that adjusted the amount of resistance, and his fingers easily located the adjustment handle, sliding it to its lowest setting. He felt one of the thin weight cables, satisfied at the amount of slack that was there, and managed to work it free of the pulley. The tension on the meter-long cable now completely relieved, it was a simple matter to unhook each end and pull it out of the machine. He coiled the cable and slipped it under his shirt, tucking it carefully into the waistband of his pants, and left the room.
“Are you all right, Dr. Rice?” It was the orderly, Poser. He had just entered the corridor through the locked door at the far end, and carried a small plastic tray with a carton of fruit juice and a glass. “Why were you in there in the dark?” he indicated the exercise chamber.
“Oh.” Rice turned in the direction of his room. “It’s my stomach. I thought maybe if I walked around a bit I could shake it. Didn’t do much good, I’m afraid.”
“This will probably be more effective in settling your stomach,” he said once they were back in his room. He set the tray on the table while Rice sat in the chair, then did a perfunctory taking of his pulse, glancing at the readout on a handheld he’d produced from a pocket of his white coat. He did not, Rice noticed, wear a watch. He also checked his temperature, peered into each of his eyes, and pressed on his neck just beneath his ears with his fingertips.
“I think you’ll be fine,” Poser continued. “You’ll recall that Dr. Rapson mentioned how dehydrated you had become by your ordeal aboard the pod. You should be drinking more fluids, especially since you are spending so much time on the exercise equipment.” He opened the container and filled the glass, handing it to Rice.
“Thanks.” Rice took the offered drink and sipped at it gingerly. “I’ll try to remember.”
Poser smiled and turned to leave, picking up the tray as he did, and Rice followed him to the door.
“When will I be able to leave?” He sipped cautiously at the juice again, careful not to swallow too much in case that was how they were drugging him. If they were drugging him.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to the doctor about that.”
“Can I see him?”
“I’ll be seeing him in just a little while,” Poser said, his smile just a little too practiced, a little too plastic. “I can tell him myself that you’re ready to get out of here.”
Rice returned the smile. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.” He lifted the glass to his lips again, but instead splashed its contents into the man’s face, catching him completely off guard. He staggered back against the doorframe, eyes blinking in shock, his hands wiping at his face. Rice reached under his shirt, and in one smooth motion uncoiled the cable and looped it over Poser’s head, pulling the ends tightly behind the man’s back as he pawed frantically at the cable now digging into his neck, and dragged him into the corridor. Poser was able to get his fingers under the cable and managed to loosen it a bit, choking loudly as he gasped desperately for air.
Rice knew that they had to be watching him closely now and moved with his kicking, struggling burden as fast as he could down the corridor, grateful that the little man was so light. He didn’t loosen his grip on the cable around Poser’s neck until reaching the locked door that would admit them into the next corridor.
“Open it!” He jerked backward on the cable, letting him know he meant what he said. “Open it! Or so help me I’ll strangle you!”
The orderly continued digging at the cable cutting into his neck, too terrified to do anything more than struggle.
Rice nearly lifted Poser off the ground and slung him against the doorframe. He gripped both ends of the cable in one hand and pushed the man face-first into the wall, pressing against him to hold him there while pulling at his arm with his other hand. Each time Rice pulled Poser’s arm free, the hand would snap back to Poser’s neck as he tried to get his fingers under the constricting cable around his throat. Rice finally got a firm grip on Poser’s wrist and slapped his hand against the opening plate next to the door, but the palm wasn’t flat against the plate and the door didn’t open. He tried again with the same results. And again. But the man’s flailing made it nearly impossible to even hold him still, much less control the angle of his hand.
But with each passing second his struggling lessened, and Rice realized the man was blacking
out. He eased back on the cable and felt the gasping Poser beginning to slip to the floor like a rag doll. Leaning almost his full weight against him to keep him upright, he then flattened his hand against the plate, making sure the man’s thumbprint was centered on the scanning mechanism. The door slid obediently aside.
Concentrating more intently on just drawing his next breath, Poser put up little resistance as Rice dragged him down the corridor to where another door would admit them to the next section. This time he was able to get the door opened on the first try.
The section they entered was similar to his own in that it was arranged like a suite of rooms, although one wall had been replaced with a single sheet of dark plastiglass that reflected the two of them as they moved quickly through in the direction of the next doorway. When he took a careful look at the door, Rice began to feel lucky for the first time since deciding upon his little revolt—it was a lift entrance. If he could just access the lift, he could then use the terminal sure to be inside it to find the location of the orbital’s escape pods. He might yet be able to make it out of this.
But as he flattened Poser’s hand on the opening plate, it glowed red. Someone aboard the station had caught on to what he was doing and had disabled the opening plates to Poser’s thumbprint.
“Damn!” He loosened his grip on the orderly, allowing him to sink to the floor, still gasping and clutching his throat. He turned to run back the way he had come, but the door they’d just come through slid abruptly closed.
That’s it, then, he thought cheerlessly, leaning out of breath against the wall opposite the pitiful man at his feet. It was a good try, though. It occurred to him, however, that now he would at least find out what was going on. If he wasn’t being kept here under some pretense, there certainly wouldn’t be so much security in place to keep him here. At least he’d managed to establish that.
The opening plate suddenly changing from red to green caught his eye. He grabbed Poser and jerked him to his feet, encircling his forearm around his neck. There wasn’t time to grab the cable on the floor, but the diminutive man’s weakened condition had so thoroughly worn down his resistance that it hardly mattered. Rice backed down the hall with his impromptu hostage, putting some distance between himself and the opening lift.
