Doughnut

by Tom Holt

  A surge of pain in his head made him lie back, and he stared at the bare wooden rafters for a while, trying to fight off the panic that was gradually, relentlessly, working its way into his mind. He’d never really thought about death before, except in a vague, objective kind of a way. He was aware that it existed, but so did Omsk; both of them were distant, irrelevant and not particularly attractive, and he had no intention of visiting either of them. The thought that he might die alone, pointlessly, unnoticed, unaided and quite possibly at the paws of viciously predatory cartoon characters would never have occurred to him, and he was entirely unprepared to deal with it.

  But then, dealing with stuff had never been his strongest suit; he’d always preferred to run away, and right now he could see no reason to change the habits of a lifetime. The obstacles in his path consisted of a bamboo cage and an armed duck. What, he asked himself, would Einstein have done? Or Niels Bohr?

  “Help!” he shouted. “Guard!”

  The duck didn’t move.

  “Guard!” He paused, then added, “Aargh!”

  The upper and lower mandible of the duck’s beak were moving slightly, as if it was muttering something to itself over and over again under its breath. “Help!” he yelled. “Heart attack! I’m dying!”

  Slowly, the duck turned its head and stared at him. It didn’t need to say anything; words, indeed, would probably have ruined the effect. “Sorry,” Theo mumbled, “false alarm. I’m fine now.”

  The duck gave him another second and a half of the stare, then moved its head away and carried on contemplating the opposite wall. Theo lay down on the floor and curled up in a little ball. It seemed the sensible thing to do.

  Some time later, he heard voices and looked up. The duck was on its feet, rigidly to attention, wing-feather-tips brushing its temple in a millimetre-perfect salute. The two newcomers didn’t seem to have noticed. One of them, a blue-grey donkey with a lilac belly and a bow tied to its tail, was taking readings with some kind of instrument that whirred and flinked tiny red and green lights. The other, a tiny deformed-looking pig with the body of a pink wasp, was filling a syringe from a brown glass bottle.

  “Leave us,” the donkey said to the guard, which saluted again and left the room. The pig squirted a tiny drop of something blue from the needle of its syringe, and put the bottle away in a big black bag.

  Really not good, Theo decided. He reckoned he could probably take the pig, if he caught it unaware, but the donkey was big and mean-looking, and the guard would be only a shout away. He had no idea what was in the syringe, but he’d been around the scientific community long enough to figure that it probably wasn’t anything he’d want inserted in him. He stayed where he was and tried to look as though he was fast asleep.

  They came across and stood a few feet from the cage, gazing at him as though he had little dotted lines tattooed on his skin. Then the pig said, “I don’t know, it looks perfectly normal. Its hair’s not the right colour, but that could be ordinary genetic mutation.”

  “The clothes,” replied the donkey. “Where’d it get them?”

  The pig leaned forward to look. “Some kind of military uniform.”

  “Not one I recognise. And the shoes. Look at the shoes. What kind of feet do you suppose would fit in shoes like that?”

  Valid point. The animals he’d seen so far either had bare, rounded stubs at the end of their legs, or else wore footwear like plump cloth bags tied at the ankle. How any of them could stand up without falling over was a mystery to him. He tried to shuffle his feet under him, but it was clearly too late for that.

  “The shoes,” the donkey went on, “clearly weren’t made for any sentient species known to us. But they were made. They appear to be the product of sophisticated manufacturing techniques, maybe even mass production. Therefore somebody made them.” It glanced down at its scanner again, and its frown deepened. “Ask yourself,” it said. “Who made them, and what for?”

  The pig rubbed its vestigial chin. “Some people like to dress up their pet humans in quaint costumes,” it said. “Maybe—”

  “And it talks,” the donkey said grimly.

  The pig looked up at it. “Surely not.”

  “That was what the report said.” The donkey looked at the door to make sure it was closed, and lowered its voice. “Surely you can grasp the significance. A talking human, wearing unfamiliar clothes and bizarre footwear, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. If it means what I think it means…”

  The pig looked terrified. “The Catastrophic Origin theory,” it whispered. “But surely—”

  “That’s what we’re here to find out,” the donkey said. “Now, I suggest we start by administering the hydroglyco-barythane, followed by an incremental series of electric shocks.”

  In spite of himself, Theo made a soft whimpering noise. Both animals turned and stared.

  “I think,” the piglet said in a horrified whisper, “it can understand what we’re saying.”

  The donkey nodded slowly. “So do I,” it said. “Of course, we can test that quite easily using tetracyanic acid and a simple thumbscrew.”

  “Um,” Theo said loudly, “sorry to interrupt but I couldn’t help overhearing, and if it’d save you the trouble, then, yes, I can understand you. Well, not the hydroglycowhatsit stuff, because I’m not a chemist, but the general sort of gist of things, no problem—”

  The donkey’s head shot up. The pig made a terrified squealing noise and scrabbled in its bag, producing a small but efficient-looking handgun. “Let’s shoot it now,” it said quickly. “We can get all the answers we need from dissecting it.”

  “Calm down, Professor,” the donkey said quietly. “And put that thing away, for now at least. I assure you, the cage is quite robust, and the guard is close by. We’re in no danger.”

  “Physical danger, perhaps not,” the pig muttered darkly. “Spiritual danger, on the other hand—”

  “Come now,” the donkey said, and its lips curled in a sort of smile. “You’re supposed to be a scientist. It’s not going to eat your soul, you know. That’s just a story.”

  The pig seemed a little bit calmer, but it was still holding the gun. “Quite,” it said. “And as a scientist, I know that folk tales and legends often have a solid foundation in fact. If that – that thing makes the slightest attempt to cuddle me, I’m shooting first and rationalising afterwards, is that understood?”

  “Of course. If you have to shoot, though, try and avoid the head. I’m particularly keen to examine the upper hippocampus, and I can’t do that if you’ve spattered it all over the opposite wall.”

  “Um, excuse me,” Theo yelped desperately, “but really, there’s no need. I’m a scientist myself, I can tell you what’s inside my head without you cutting it open.”

  The pig squeaked loudly and darted behind the donkey, aiming the gun at Theo between the donkey’s ears. The donkey opened its mouth once or twice, then said, “You’re a scientist?”

  “It’s just some words it’s picked up listening to its owners,” the piglet muttered. “I say shoot it now, before it does something to our brains.”

  The donkey wasn’t listening. “You mustn’t mind my colleague,” it said slowly, “he had a strict orthodox upbringing, you know, stories about Before, when humans ruled the world. I won’t let him shoot you—”

  “Thanks,” Theo gasped.

  “Unless absolutely necessary. Tell me,” the donkey went on, gently easing the pig backwards with one of its hind legs, “where are you from? Come to that, what are you?”

  “Um.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s a long story,” Theo said cautiously. “Are you by any chance familiar with Everett’s work on relative state formulation?”

  “That does it,” whimpered the pig. “I’m going to count to three, and then—”

  “Be quiet,” snapped the donkey. “Say that again, will you?”

  “Relative state formulation,” Theo repeated. “It’s the basis
of modern multiverse theory. Put simply—”

  “Multiverse,” the donkey said slowly. “Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day.”

  “I’ve never heard it,” squeaked the pig. “It sounds silly. How can you have a multiuniverse? I mean, the universe is like, everything, right? So how can you…?”

  Without looking round, the donkey lashed out with its hind legs, hitting the pig square in the chest and hurling it across the room. There was a soft thud as it smashed into the wall; then it dropped to the floor like a cushion and lay still.

  “Now then,” the donkey said briskly, swishing its berib-boned tail, “we don’t have much time. I’ll have to think of a plausible story to tell the guard, but that won’t be a problem. Between you and me” – the donkey was nibbling at the ropes that held the bamboo rods together – “the ducks aren’t the pinkest ribbons in the drawer, if you get my drift.”

  Theo backed away until the cage stopped him. “What are you—?”

  “Breaking you out of here, what does it look like?” the donkey said with its mouth full. “Unless you want to stay here and get vivisected by the scientific community. Sorry, I neglected to consult you on that. Well?”

  “On balance,” Theo said, “no, not really. But—”

  “That’s all right, then,” the donkey said, spitting out a mouthful of chewed-up fibres. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to give the bars directly ahead of you a good sharp kick.”

  There was a crash as the cage collapsed. A couple of bamboo rods bounced off Theo’s head, but they were light enough not to bother him; just as well, since his head was spinning enough already. “Well,” the donkey said, nuzzling through the pig’s pockets, “are you coming or not?” It teased out a fat wallet with its teeth and tossed it through the air at Theo, who dropped it. “In there you’ll find a security pass,” the donkey said. “That’s it, the bright blue one. We’ll need that. Now,” it went on, “get the pig’s clothes and put them on.”

  The pig was dressed in a sort of giant nappy. “That’s silly,” Theo said. “I’ll never pass for Piglet. The ears are all wrong, for one thing.”

  The donkey sighed. “Fine,” it said. “Stay here.” Then it frowned. “You called it—”

  “Piglet,” Theo said. “From Winnie the—”

  The donkey gave him the most intense stare he’d ever been subjected to. “Pooh,” he said. “Yes. You’re going to have to tell me how you know that. But not now,” it added, pulling itself together. “Get dressed, then put Piglet in the cage, what’s left of it. And keep your mouth shut, whatever you do.”

  A little later, while Theo struggled desperately to keep the nappy from sliding down round his ankles, the donkey went to the door and pushed it open a crack. “Guard.”

  Theo couldn’t see the duck, but he could hear its voice. “Sir.”

  “There’s been a dreadful accident,” the donkey said. “The human broke out of its cage and attacked us. I managed to subdue it, but my colleague is badly hurt. I shall take him to the Owl for medical treatment. You must stay outside this door and not let anyone pass until I return. Is that understood?”

  “Sir.”

  “Very good. Carry on.” The donkey backed into the room. “Right,” it whispered, “In the pig’s bag there’s a roll of bandage. Wind it round your head and face, and then I’ll help you with the arms and legs. Quickly.”

  “And remember,” the donkey added, as Theo, mummified except for a narrow slit for his eyes, scrambled on to the donkey’s back, “you’re dying, so groan a bit. But don’t overdo it.”

  The duck didn’t even look at him as they went past. Various bears, rabbits, baby deer, bipedal gun-toting dogs and generic small cuddly mammals turned to stare at them as they crossed the compound, but the donkey kept calling out, “Medical emergency! Radiation!” as they passed, so they had a clear run as far as the checkpoint gates, which were guarded by two elephants with huge ears, little yellow caps and shotguns.

  “Medical emergency,” the donkey said.

  The elephants didn’t move. “Papers.”

  “My colleague here was standing right next to the reactor core when it blew,” the donkey said. “He’s suffering from massive radiation exposure. For pity’s sake, don’t get too close.”

  “Papers.”

  “He’s already starting to mutate,” the donkey said. “I need to get him to the university, we’ve got equipment there that might save him. Don’t look,” he added, as one elephant leaned forward, “it’s horrible.”

  The elephant stretched out its trunk and twitched aside a fold of bandage from Theo’s face. “My God,” the elephant said, “he’s right.” It shrank back and shouldered arms. “Pass,” it said.

  Half a mile from the compound, the donkey stopped, looked back and said, “Right. We’re clear. Get the hell off me.”

  Theo slid to the ground and started clawing at the bandages, which had been driving him crazy. It took him a minute or so, but eventually he was free of them, at which point he became painfully aware that he was wearing nothing but the pig’s bulbous pink nappy. He cringed, and tried not to think about it.

  “Come on,” the donkey said. “We’ve still got a long way to go.”

  They walked in silence for a while. The donkey was tense, forever craning its neck to look around for pursuers or patrols. “I figure we’ve got an hour’s start on them,” it said eventually. “Then someone’s going to come looking for Piglet and me. And then the candy floss is really going to hit the fan.”

  Theo had been meaning to ask. “Why?” he said. “Why did you rescue me?”

  The donkey gave him a long, sad look. “Because you’re not the first sentient talking human I’ve come across, is why,” he said. “And because I’m a true scientist. I may hate the truth with every bit of kapock of my stuffing, but I can’t deny it’s true. It’s a little thing called integrity, I don’t suppose you have it where you came from.”

  “Well,” Theo said. “Actually, yes. Sort of.”

  “Really? You surprise me.” The donkey stopped and glowered at him. “I’m inclined to doubt that,” it said.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh yes. Because,” it went on, “if sentient talking humans really exist, then it’s more than likely that there’s a grain of truth in the old stories. In which case,” he added, “I ought to kick your arse from here to the Hundred Acre Wood.” An agonised expression passed over his face. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got to ask. Are you him?”

  “Who?”

  “Christopher Robin.”

  Theo shook his head slowly. “Not as such, no.”

  The donkey breathed slowly in and out. “Thought not,” he said. “Too old, for one thing. Also, I resolutely refuse to believe in the existence of Christopher Robin. You could say that’s the cornerstone of my very being.”

  “Nope,” Theo said, “I’m not him.”

  “Ah.”

  “But he was real,” Theo couldn’t resist adding. “He grew up and ran a bookshop somewhere in the west of England. Died about fifteen years ago.”

  The donkey groaned and said nothing for a while. Then it stopped again. “And the rest of it?” it said. “Is it true?”

  “I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

  The donkey looked away. “That once upon a time, your kind enslaved my kind, treating them as toys and playthings, until finally – after the Great Machine blew up and laid waste your entire civilisation – we rose up, burnt what was left of your cities to the ground and slaughtered you by the million, until there were so few of you left that you wandered into the woods and mountains and reverted to wild, senseless animals. Well?”

  “The first bit, yes,” Theo said. “Sorry about that, by the way. The other bit, um, not yet.”

  The donkey looked at him. “Not yet?”

  “Not where I come from.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense. All this happened hundreds of thousands of years ago.”

  “Um,�
� Theo said.

  The donkey stared at him for a moment, then suddenly nodded. “Multiverse theory.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re from a different—”

  “Yup.”

  “Ah.” The donkey looked faintly relieved. “So what you mean is, you’re from somewhere that might, if a highly speculative theory is correct, be a universe parallel to our own in certain respects, but which almost certainly differs from it in others, and might therefore differ in regard to the existence of Christopher Robin and the historical reality of the so-called Age of Degradation. Yes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Excellent.” The donkey cheered up immediately. “So long as it’s just a theory, I can more or less live with it. Right, let’s get moving. We haven’t got all day, you know.”

  They followed a winding path down to a long, broad, sandy beach. Behind it a steep granite cliff reared up to the sky, from which a cruelly hot sun beat down on them. They walked across the sand for about a mile, and came to the mouth of a cave.

  “In there,” the donkey said, nodding his head at the cave mouth. “Right, this is where I leave you.” He hesitated, then added: “Good luck.”

  “What about you?” Theo said. “You can’t go back. What are you going to do?”

  The donkey shrugged. It was the gesture he’d been born for. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s only me, after all. I expect I’ll wander aimlessly around for a bit and then I’ll die.”

  Instinctively Theo reached out a hand to give the donkey a consoling pat, but it shrank away and scowled horribly at him. “Don’t even think about it, human,” it growled.

  “Sorry. I was just—”

  “Yeah, right. Next thing you know, you’ll be wanting me to sleep on your pillow. Now get out of my sight, before I decide to turn you in to the authorities.”