Eschaton 1 – The Other End of Time

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Pat

Of all the things Pat Adcock missed, the ones she would least have expected were clocks. They had none. There wasn't any day or night in their cell; the white glow came always unvarying from the ceiling. She felt time dragging for her, with nothing to do, but the only clues the prisoners had to measure how much of it was passing were their own internal ones-the number of times they (unenthusiastically) ate some of the scraps the Dopey had given them, or slept (uncomfortably stretched on the bare cell floor), or, when the remorseless demands of their metabolisms made it necessary, did their best to come somewhere near the impossible wish to urinate and move their bowels in private.

It was not a kind of existence Pat Adcock had ever expected for herself. Not Patrice Dannerman Ely Metcalf Adcock, who had never in her life gone hungry, except in the occasional struggle to get rid of a few extra pounds, who had, from tiniest childhood, always lived a life of privileged security-well, reasonable security, if you didn't count the natural hazards everyone faced from street violence or random terrorist acts. Pat was accustomed to being a person of position. She was entitled to give orders to nearly two hundred people, as the operating head of a reasonably prestigious scientific enterprise. She was also used to all the perquisites that went with being more or less rich.

What Pat Adcock was used to was being an organism efficiently adapted to the ecological niche she occupied. She had all the skills necessary for that life; knew how to juggle budgets even in runaway inflation; how to discourage a date who wanted more intimacy than she cared to give-and how to motivate one who didn't; how to find a clean and comfortable ladies' room at need, wherever she was; how much to tip a headwaiter and when it was best just to give him a smile; how to-

Well, how to live, in the particular world she was designed to live in.

But not in this new world, which seemed to call for skills she didn't have and didn't know how to acquire. So nothing in Pat's previous life had prepared her for the present confinement and privation, not to mention the humiliating aspects of their captivity. Naked, weaponless, surrounded by the mirrored walls- wherever she looked six Pats, or sixty times six Pats, looked back at her, dwindling as the reflections became more distant. They were penned like abandoned dogs in an animal shelter, waiting to be adopted-or to be put to death. Nor did they have any more control than a stray dog over their future. They could tell time only by events. Only in their case the events weren't inspections by possible new owners, they were occasions like the time when they got the food from Starlab, and the time when they were at last given back their clothes, and the frightening time when they killed the Dopey.

No circumstances were ever so bad that a little human effort couldn't make them worse. As their tempers grew short they became quarrelsome. Pat snapped at Martin Delasquez for snoring, Dannerman and Rosie Artzybachova withdrew from the others, each busy at some not discussed thoughts of their own, while Martin and Jimmy Lin argued fiercely over whether the lack of blankets to sleep on was worse than the lacks in their limited larder, and whether mints, apples and corn chips represented a diet they could survive on. For Pat, who was trying to force herself to down one more meal of that sort of trash, it was the last straw. "Oh, shut up, you two, for God's sake. Dan, what's the matter with everybody?"

It was a rhetorical question, but she could see him making the effort to give her an answer. "It's prisoner neurosis," he said. "You see a lot of it in jails; that's why you have so many murders in prisons. Actually, it's the policeman's best friend, because when people are hiding out from the cops, after a while they just can't stand each other. That's when they do something foolish and get caught."

Jimmy was listening with a half smile. "You know all about that, don't you, Dannerman?" he said.

Dan gave him an opaque look. "It's common knowledge. Psych 101, or don't they teach that in Chinese colleges?"

Lin met him stare for stare, then shrugged. "Actually, I got my bachelor's at the University of Hawaii," he said, and dropped the subject. Pat frowned, chopping a bruised part out of the apple she had just picked up; there was something going on between the two of them, but she couldn't guess what. Jimmy was being his usual irritating self, of course, but Dannerman-well, what was Dannerman up to, exactly? He prowled their cell for hours at a time, then sat silently, seeming to be trying to work something out, though she couldn't imagine what.

Rosaleen was talking to her. "Do you notice anything about the apples?"

Pat looked at the fruit, puzzled. "Well, I think that's the second or third I've had with a bruise in the same spot."

"Really," Rosaleen said thoughtfully. "That I hadn't noticed. What I was talking about was how many are there. I never packed that many."

"And actually I only had one package of corn chips," Pat said.

"I don't understand. Are they raiding a supermarket somewhere?"

"If they are, they could give us a little more variety," Martin said sourly.

Dannerman speculated, "Maybe they figure that's all we need, since that was all they found on us."

"Or maybe they have some way of multiplying the food- you know, loaves and fishes," Rosaleen said. "But they could find something better to multiply. There's stored food in Star-lab. If Dopey-" She hesitated before she said it, but they did need a name for the creature. "If Dopey can bring the potable water still from the orbiter he can bring us some of the food, too."

"Or," Jimmy Lin said, "he could bring us a bed, maybe one of those four-posters with curtains that come down? So we could get on with that breeding he was talking about?"

Pat gave him a freezing look. It was nice that Jimmy seemed to be coming out of his funk, but she didn't want him starting anything that could not be properly finished. As a matter of fact, the subject had been on her mind from time to time. This enforced intimacy was stimulating glands that she didn't really want stimulated just then. She thought almost wistfully of ex-husband Ferdie Adcock-not of that son of a bitch of another ex-husband, Jerry Metcalf, who had been a disappointment in all areas, including the bed. Ferdie, on the other hand, had been a truly rewarding lover, in almost every way a fine choice for a mate… if only she had been able to overlook his unfortunate habit of keeping his amatory skills current by constant practice-on two of their maids, on the assistant cook, on an occasional picked-up professional and, most troublesome of all, on several of her (formerly) best friends.

But Ferdie was far in the past and even farther away in space.

As to the nearer candidates-well, she thought, simply as a speculation; there was no intention to do anything about it, of course-there was General Delasquez. Not counting the flab, he was a powerfully proportioned man, though too bossy in his disposition to be a really first-rate choice. Jimmy Lin himself? Yes, she admitted to herself, under some circumstances the Chinanaut might have been a definite possibility. Even on Earth it had once in a while crossed her mind to wonder just how much of the know-how of Jimmy Lin's great-great he might have inherited. Of course, there were problems with Jimmy, too, one of the most annoying of them being the prospect of becoming just one more scalp on his boastfully long list. That wasn't necessarily a total disqualification. Pat Adcock was not a jealous woman, except with husbands. In the case of a casual lover that sort of thing might have been bearable-under normal conditions. However, under normal conditions they wouldn't be stuck with an audience of three interested onlookers while they got it on.

Which left only one-still purely theoretical-contender. Dan.

Actually, she conceded to herself, watching Dannerman move about the enclosure out of the corner of her eye, there wasn't really much wrong with her cousin, if you overlooked his habit of thinking private thoughts he didn't choose to share with anyone. Dan wasn't a bad-looking man. He wasn't a stranger, either. They had been pretty close at one time, and if they hadn't gone off to separate schools the two of them might sooner or later have decided to become a lot closer. Dan was a definite possibility, she thought-still purely theoretically, of course.

But, under the circumstances, she was determined that it had to be theoretical. Without privacy, making love with him or with anyone at all was simply out of the question-at the moment, anyway, she added to herself… and then noticed Jimmy Lin's knowing grin as he watched her covertly eyeing Danner-man.

They kept making small, but inexplicable, discoveries about their cell. Rosaleen pointed out a curious thing about the floor. It not only soaked up and removed their biological wastes, it did the same for trash of all kinds- their apple cores, for instance. Throw them on the floor, and an hour or so later they were gone. Yet the floor was selective about what it caused to disappear. Their food supplies were scattered on the floor, for lack of any better place to put them, and they were never touched. "It discriminates," the old lady said, sounding pleased-well, the cell was, after all, an interesting machine. "Also we must have used all the water the tank could hold by now, but if you notice it's not empty. Somehow the water is being replenished."

"Have you noticed that we don't stink very much, either?" Jimmy Lin put in. That was also true, Pat realized. Add the open "toilet" to the fact that bathing was impossible, and the air of their cell should have been pretty ripe. It wasn't. Their air was constantly being changed. The shadowless light that came from the ceiling was less of a puzzle-even on Earth there were such wall installations that glowed in much the same way-but the greater mystery of the walls resisted all explanation. "Talk about making money from alien technology," Martin said bitterly. "Do you have any idea what that kind of hardware would be worth for prisons? Let the guards walk in and out, but keep the convicts secure?"

Rosaleen, doing leg lifts with her hands pressed against the wall in lieu of a barre, gave him a look. "It would be worth a great deal for many things far more useful than prisons, actually."

Jimmy Lin laughed. "You have something against prisons, Rosie?"

"Yes," she said. "Now more than ever, but always. We had enough experience of prisons in Ukraine. My mother's uncle was taken away to one when he was fourteen years old; he didn't come back until he was sixty-two, and dying. Also my mother's father, my grandfather, who died there. We learned much about prisons in my family from my great-uncle, because he had many stories to tell."

"Did he have any good advice to give?"

"About escaping? No. About how to survive, yes; my great-uncle said the important thing was to go on doing what you should be doing if you were free-as much as you possibly can, that is. Some things would naturally be impossible."

Pat made the connection. "That's why you do your exercises every day?"

Rosaleen hesitated. "That is one reason, yes. The other reason- Well, that is not important. What is important is to keep a sense of purpose. In my great-uncle's case he constantly continued his education; he had been taken right out of school when they arrested him. He organized classes with the other prisoners and at night, instead of sleeping, they taught each other what they knew. Before he died he could speak French, German, Georgian, some English and Japanese and even a little bit of Hebrew. He was pretty nearly in Dopey's class as a linguist, almost, and that wasn't all. He could recite poetry for hours-Mandelstam, Okujawa, Shakespeare, Petrarch-and he knew the names of all the kings of England and France, in order. And much more. But he didn't spend much time thinking about escaping. There would have been no point in running away from the camps, you see, when the whole country was a prison."

"Much like our own situation," Jimmy Lin said sourly; and no one had anything to say to that.

When Dopey came again the three men were sleeping restlessly on one side of the cage, and Rosaleen was teaching Pat tai chi. They were trying to be as quiet as possible, but when Pat saw one of the wall panels begin to cloud she called out at once. By the time Dopey was inside the men were getting up, bleary-eyed but curious.

"You asked for the food from Starlab," Dopey said. "Also blankets so that you may sleep in more comfort." The parade of Docs that followed him began setting down racks and cases of objects.

"Hey," said Jimmy Lin, for the first time in their captivity looking almost pleased. He began sorting through the new rations even before the Docs had set their burdens down and trooped out. Besides the blankets, the Starlab ones hemmed with metal rings to keep them from floating away, there were scores of food packets of all kinds. Some were in pop-open cans, some sealed in plastic. Freeze-dried, radiated or canned, they needed no refrigeration, and they came in many varieties. Pat saw packages labeled "omelette" and "fried tomatoes" and any number of vegetables: green beans, white beans, red beans, pickled cabbage, raw cabbage, beets. There were soups, stews and quiches; there were powders that were dehydrated fruit juices or coffee, and Pat was suddenly aware of just how hungry she was. She wasn't the only one. Martin held up one opaque plastic sack, reading the label wonderingly: "What is 'hassenpfeffer'?" he demanded, and Jimmy Lin exulted: "Look! There must have been some Chinese on Starlab; there's bok choy! And rice, and I think these other things are dim sum!"

The only one not poring over the larder was Dannerman. He was gazing at Dopey. "What's the matter, Dan?" Pat asked, but he didn't answer her. He said to the alien:

"You heard what we said about the larder on Starlab. You can hear everything we say in here, can't you?"

The creature inclined its mournful head, the equivalent, Pat thought, of a nod. "Of course. That is my assignment. I am tasked to monitor you. Also to provide you with everything you need so the observation can continue as long as possible."

Pat looked up from the canned ham in her hand. "You aren't doing a very good job of that. Why don't you give us back our clothes?"

"To provide you with what you need" Dopey said firmly.

"Well, we need clothes. Tell him, Dan," she said, but Dannerman was looking thoughtfully at the alien. It was Rosaleen who picked up on the question.

"Clothing is a definite need for us," she declared. "We are not animals. We will be definitely harmed by prolonged exposure. Also there are items that we carried in our clothing which are essential to our survival-medications, for instance."

Dopey hesitated, then did a curious thing. He jammed his little paws deep into the copper-colored muff; his eyes closed, he seemed to be listening to voices unheard by the others. Then his eyes opened and he declared, "The clothing will be brought."

"That's more like it," Jimmy Lin said, his mouth full of something he had seized from the food supplies. "How about answering some questions for us, too? Where are we?"

"You are in this pen. You do not require more information than that."

"Well, then," Martin Delasquez tried, "at least tell us what you're monitoring? What do you want us to do?"

"Simply to continue as you are," Dopey said, as though that should have been obvious. Then, as the walls opened and three burdened Docs came back in, he added sharply, "Do not touch your clothing yet!" It was not really a necessary order. They couldn't have, anyway; the three Docs had formed in a line between the captives and the pile of clothing. Dopey paid them no further attention, but began carefully examining each garment. As he finished with one he tossed it past the Docs to be claimed-a brassiere for Rosaleen Artzybachova, a single sock, a pair of men's under shorts claimed by Dannerman. The underwear came first, because, Pat thought, it was the easiest to check out. As Dopey came to the outer garments he was more thorough, investigating pockets, running his long, tapering fingers over seams to see if anything was concealed inside them. He was looking for weapons, it seemed. He found them, too: two guns and a bomb-bugger in Dannerman's effects, a gun and a knife in Martin's, more guns from the others, even two little switchblade knives from the garments of Rosaleen Artzybachova. "Christ," Pat said. "We were all ready to fight a war!"

"I simply took routine precautions," Jimmy Lin said defensively, watching as Dopey pulled a sixty-shot sidearm out of his jacket.

Rosaleen spoke up, to the Dopey: "That's just a pen! Please let me have it."

The Dopey didn't respond, except to turn the pen over a few times, then take it apart. Evidently he decided it would not make a good stabbing weapon; he tossed it over and turned to everyone's shoes. That took longer. He ran his fingers inside each shoe, apparently measuring to see if there was enough thickness anywhere to conceal a weapon. On one of Jimmy's shoes he hit pay dirt: the heel unscrewed, and inside it was a coil of razor wire.

"Hell," Jimmy said, and resignedly went back to getting dressed. They were all doing it, now. It was surprising, Pat thought, how much more formidable Martin Delasquez looked once he had his military camouflage jacket on again, gold braid with its embroidered general's stars. For Pat herself getting dressed again after so long bare was less pleasant than she had imagined. The waistband of the slacks was uncomfortably tight; the pantyhose unpleasingly constricting; and her feet seemed to have swelled, because it was an effort to get them into the shoes.

The three Docs abruptly turned as one and left, carrying the confiscated weaponry; and it was only then that Pat realized that while they were dressing Dopey had slipped through the wall and was gone.

"Damn it," Dannerman said. "I was hoping we could ask him some more questions."

"Which he probably wouldn't have answered anyway," Pat said. "So let's eat!"

The canned ham had been cold and greasy, the pita bread Pat ate with it dry and leathery, but her belly was full. Eating made a difference. Being clothed made a difference, too; Pat couldn't help feeling that things were taking a turn for the better. Maybe only a very small improvement, with a very long way still to go, but everybody seemed cheerier. Martin in uniform stood taller than before, and what they had received was not merely food and clothing. Dopey had returned all their pouches and belly bags. Pat was pleased to get her watch back and her rings, less pleased to have the packet of tampons that she always carried in case of emergency; it reminded her that her period would be coming along sometime soon, and that one pair of tampons would not be adequate to her needs.

Rosaleen held aloft a small bottle. "My painkillers," she said exultantly.

"Were you in pain?" Pat asked wonderingly.

"Dear girl, at my age one is always in pain; exercise helps a little, but these are better-though they do not solve the real problem. May we not discuss it, please? I have a suggestion."

There was something in Rosaleen's tone that made Pat anxious to hear more, but she didn't press the point. "Yes?"

"Let us make an inventory of all our possessions. Dan, since you still have your screen, perhaps you can keep the tally."

Her tone made Pat curious. "Dopey didn't return yours?"

Rosaleen pursed her lips. "He probably thought it contained a weapon."

Delasquez laughed. "And, of course, it did. What, simply a sharp little blade, for emergencies? He took mine too, for the same reason."

"And left us no weapons at all," Jimmy Lin said. Something in his tone made Pat give him a closer look. But when she started to ask him, Dannerman cut in.

"Hold it," he commanded. "Of course none of us have any weapons-but if we did"-he glanced meaningfully at the wall-"we had probably better not mention them out loud. Let's get on with the inventory, shall we?"

It didn't take long. There was Rosaleen's multicolor pen (but nothing to write on with it but some coarse wrapping paper from the food larder) and a reading glass; a collection of key cards and IDs from all of them; a nail clipper; two pocket combs; some loose coins-very few, because hardly anyone carried cash. That was it. Most of them had left their more interesting gadgets in the lockers at the Cape. "No weapons there, anyway," Jimmy said ruefully. "I guess if we put all our coins and stuff in a sock we could make a cosh." Dannerman gave him a warning look, prompting him to add quickly, "Although there's not enough mass there to do any real harm to anybody anyway."

Pat could restrain her curiosity no longer. "Rosie? What's this 'real problem' you're talking about?"

Rosaleen shrugged. "I don't suppose there's any need to keep it secret; it is simply that there is nothing that can be done about it. Painkillers are not the only medication I need. I have a good many other troublesome conditions. They are well controlled by implants, but the implants need to be refreshed from time to time-beta blockers, polyestrogens, most of all the implant that helps to ward off Alzheimer's. I don't suppose any of you have anything like that on you?"

General shaking of heads. Jimmy Lin, his mouth full of rice, offered, "I have allergy medicine. I don't suppose that would help?"

Rosaleen shook her head, unsurprised. "Not at all. I doubt you'll need it, either; there may be allergens around here, but not the ones you've needed it for. So," she added, "I have some weeks at least, conceivably even some months, before the implants wear off, then- Well, let's look on the bright side. By then we may all be dead anyway."