Prisoners of Tomorrow

by James P. Hogan

  “It looks dead enough down there to me, Razz. Hell, we’ve gotten this far. Sure, let’s go the rest.”

  Rashazzi probed with a gauge to assess the thickness of the panel, and selected a sawblade with the pitch he estimated would work the most quietly. He fitted it into the handle and began cutting two-handed with slow, deliberate motions, using the hole to gain a start. They had experimented with a power saw in the Crypt, but rejected it as too noisy. After a few minutes, Rashazzi rested his hands and McCain took over.

  “I’ve been thinking about something,” Rashazzi said after a while as he watched.

  “So what’s new? You’re always thinking about something.”

  “About the laser.”

  “What about it?”

  Rashazzi reached up and moved the lamp to illuminate better the area that McCain had cut to. “You don’t trust this communications channel that they’ve got upstairs . . . because it goes through Russian intermediaries.”

  “Damn right.”

  “Just because they’re Russians? The fact that they are dissidents doesn’t carry any weight?”

  “I don’t know that. I’ve only been told it—secondhand, thirdhand, who-knows-how-many-times-hand. Who can believe anything they’re told in this place?”

  “You think the KGB might be reading it?”

  “Let’s just say it wouldn’t be on the list of things I’d be most surprised to learn about the world.”

  Rashazzi rubbed the tip of his nose with a knuckle, as if pondering how to put what was on his mind. Finally he said, “But you wouldn’t be any better off with the laser, even if you did get it talking straight into the US military network. You’d have to use the existing channel to advise them what frequency they should watch for, the code you plan to use, and so on. If the KGB get that information too, they’ll be able to intercept anything that comes or goes over the laser, just as easily. You won’t have gained anything.”

  McCain sat back and returned the saw to Rashazzi. “True,” he agreed.

  “But you must have figured that out already.”

  “Yes, I had.”

  Rashazzi looked up and frowned. “So, what use is it?”

  “Camouflage,” McCain said. “If we’ve got informers around, I wouldn’t want word to get back that we’ve stopped working on the laser. It would be too much of a giveaway that we’re suspicious. Also, my partner from upstairs is in on it, and I don’t like the sound of the people around her up there. It reeks of a setup. I don’t want her carrying back an impression that anything’s changed down here. We carry on with the laser as planned.” Rashazzi nodded in a way that said it made sense, and resumed cutting.

  When the panel was fully cut, they lifted it clear and lodged it to one side. The beams from their flashlights failed to reveal anything significant in the darkness below. The space seemed to be quite large and open. McCain lowered a weighted line, which bottomed at ten feet or so. He swung his legs down and let himself down hand over hand, and Rashazzi followed.

  This was not another machinery compartment. They were in a long, bare room, entirely without furnishings or contents of any kind. And yet, strangely, there seemed to be something familiar about it as they probed upward and around with the beams from their lamps. They were near one end of the room, and in the middle of the end wall was a doorway. Rashazzi directed his lamp along the length of the room and picked out the shape of another door at the far end. And then McCain realized why it looked familiar: it was a standard Zamork-style billet, without partitions or any of the fittings, but the same shape and size. Rashazzi had noticed it too. He moved toward the door and hesitated, but there was no bracelet-interrogation signal from above. He tried the lights, but they were dead. The door opened when he pushed it. He went through, and McCain joined him outside.

  They were looking down into a larger space now, from a railed walkway. There was a similar door behind them to the left of the one they had come out of, and another to the right. There was a whole row of them they saw, no longer with surprise, as they proceeded along the walkway.

  “We’re not going to find any weapons down here, Razz,” McCain said.

  “I know.”

  “You know what this is?”

  “Yes. What’s it doing down here?”

  “I don’t know. Are they planning to turn the whole place into a prison?”

  For they were in a standard Zamork billet block. They had come down through the ceiling of one of the upper-level billets, and knew where the stairs down to the lower level would be even before they saw them. They went down, moved out into the central mess area, and sure enough, there were the two levels of billets facing them from the other side. All empty and silent. They walked to the end of the mess area, but instead of the bars and gate as existed in all of the blocks above, they found a solid wall with ordinary-looking double doors. McCain tried one of them, found it unlocked, and eased it open an inch, then instantly caught Rashazzi’s shoulder as a signal to keep back and stay quiet. There was light outside, and the sounds of voices and movement. They moved closer to the crack to peer through.

  Outside was a broad thoroughfare which in every way resembled Gorky Street. The layout was the same, the directions were the same, and there was another set of large double doors farther on and across the corner, just where the next block would be. They seemed to have emerged inside a whole, new, unsuspected level of Zamork that existed deeper down beneath the regular complex, except it wasn’t fitted out in the fashion of a detention facility. It seemed more like a normal residential complex. The large double doors that they could see were open, and inside them—in the mess area of the block they opened into—a work crew was unloading furniture from a truck. Whatever the place was, it was evidently being prepared for occupation. Suddenly McCain remembered all the bedframes that he and Scanlon had made when they were in the metalworking shops in the Core.

  “What do you make of it?” Rashazzi whispered.

  McCain watched through the crack and shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. But it looks as if they’re expecting more guests. That means this block we’re in could be next. We’ll have to patch up that hole we made in the ceiling back there.”

  “No problem. It’ll fix so that nothing will show unless you’re looking for it,” Rashazzi said.

  “But while we’re here, I want to measure the layout,” McCain muttered. “We need to make another hole to get down into here, but in another place—somewhere concealed—that won’t be right in the middle of someone’s ceiling.”

  “One of the service ducts, maybe . . . or through the utilities bay?”

  “Yes.” McCain eased the door shut again and turned to face Rashazzi.

  “That should be easy enough,” Rashazzi agreed. “But what for? Why do you want to be able to get in and out of here?”

  “Because,” McCain said, “it looks as if it’s being fitted out for civilians. In other words, this place must connect out to the rest of the colony.”

  “Of course. That truck got down here somehow.”

  McCain nodded. “Exactly. And if we were meant to get out and about to collect wrong information on all those weapons installations, then the Russians know all about our freight-line route out of Zamork, too.” He gestured over his shoulder with a thumb at the doors behind them. “Well, maybe here’s a way out for us that they won’t know about.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It was not customary for the deputy director of the UDIA to attend the meetings of the National Security Council, normally held in Washington’s Old Executive Building. Nor for that matter the UDIA director, since intelligence matters were usually covered by the director of the CIA, who presented the findings and recommendations of all departments. But Borden had been called in to this session because of the importance that the link into Valentina Tereshkova was assuming, and he had brought Foleda with him to permit Foleda to voice his disagreement for himself. Foleda felt privately that Borden’s dissociating himself
from Foleda’s view in this way was uncalled for and fell short of the degree of reciprocation that Foleda’s support on previous occasions warranted—but that was the way of politics. For his part, he had decided the situation justified stating his opinions bluntly, without making concessions to anyone’s sensibilities.

  President Warren Austin gestured at the report lying on the table in front of him, with its appended sheaf of Pedestal-Sunflower transcripts. “Sunflower” was the new code designation for the complete link from Foleda, through Cabman, to the Pedestal-mission operatives up in the Soviet space colony. “And that covers all the weapons installations that we’ve compiled from various sources—Magician and the rest?” he said.

  “The main ones that we specified,” Borden confirmed. “Every one that our people penetrated has turned out to be negative. In each case, what was found conformed to published Soviet information.”

  “Hmm, so when this gets to be made public, we’ll all look like bozos again,” the President murmured. Borden shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Apparently UDIA wasn’t among the President’s favorite outfits again today.

  At the far end of the table, General Thomas Snell of the Army, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, looked up from contemplating his fingers. “One question,” he said. “All we know for sure is that this information is coming into our network from Cabman in Siberia. How certain are we that he is in fact getting it from where he says he’s getting it from? Could the Soviets be managing the operation?”

  “We know from the validation codes that it is coming from our agents,” Borden said.

  Snell nodded. “I know that, but agents have been turned before.”

  “True,” Frank Collins, the CIA director, agreed. “But on top of that, NSA has intercepted Teepee-Blueprint transmissions that correlate with every Sunflower message. So we have confirmation that it’s coming down from Mermaid.” In fact, they no longer really needed Cabman’s transmissions from Siberia, since NSA could read the signals coming down to him from Mermaid before he relayed them on to the West. But to reveal that to Cabman would have been giving away too much.

  The President looked at Foleda. Other eyes followed forbearingly, with okay-Foleda-let’s-hear-it-for-the-record expressions. Borden stared down at the table.

  Foleda returned the President’s stare directly. “I don’t trust the Sunflower transcripts. Our agent on Pedestal has the code designation ‘Sexton.’ Sexton is an experienced operative whom I’ve known personally for years, whose judgment I trust, and whose reliability I wouldn’t question. But the messages we’ve seen from Sexton have all been neutral, with no content of any substance. The reports pertaining to weapons are from Pangolin only—a technical-support person, not of the department. I move that all incoming Sunflower material not validated by Sexton be discounted.” That was out of order. In the chair next to Foleda, Borden winced.

  Robert Uhl, the defense secretary tossed out a hand. “We have to make allowances . . . They’re in a prison up there. I don’t know exactly what the conditions are, but does it seem reasonable to expect that Sexton is even able to be present all the time? They might have all kinds of problems getting together to collaborate. Pangolin could well be doing the best job that’s possible.”

  Collins shrugged. “I could buy that.” Beside him the secretary of state, Joseph Myers, nodded agreement.

  “Motion denied,” the President ruled. He reached for a file in front of him.

  “I haven’t finished,” Foleda said.

  “Shut up, Bern,” Borden hissed. “This is an NSC meeting. There are recognized procedures . . .”

  “I’m saving you from having to say it,” Foleda muttered back. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Foleda,” the President invited.

  “We’re continuing to get reports from all sources of ominous developments throughout the Soviet-bloc nations. The number of warships at sea is unprecedented. Military-communications traffic in all bands has been abnormally heavy for days.” Foleda gestured toward a folder on the table. “A new item in yesterday of food-canning plants switching to three-shift working a month ago. It can all be construed as indicative of hostile intentions. In such a climate we can’t afford to dismiss anything that casts doubts on the reliability of Sunflower material. I repeat my previous motion. I would also recommend that we consider raising the readiness level of our armed forces until Mermaid has been opened to international inspection and cleared.”

  The secretary of state heaved himself restlessly forward in his chair and shuffled about among some papers. “Look, we know it’s your people’s job to worry, but I think this is going too far. We’ve wanted a breakthrough for years to relax the tension. I’ll put my money on this being it. I say we have to try for it.” Interestingly, he directed his words at Borden, not Foleda.

  General Snell rubbed his chin hesitantly. “Although, I don’t know . . . Maybe there could be something to it . . .”

  “We’ve been through all this,” the defense secretary said. He nodded toward Foleda to concede the point. “Yes, I agree with Mr. Foleda; under normal circumstances all the things he’s reminded us of would constitute grounds for concern—serious concern. But there is one fact that outweighs those considerations: virtually the entire Soviet leadership—its top leadership, including the First Secretary of the Party, chairman of the Council of Ministers, chiefs of the KGB and the military—are either there already, or will be within the next couple of days. We’ve asked ourselves, Is that where anyone in their right mind would concentrate the brain of the entire national organism at a time of intended conflict? On a battle station out in space that would be bound to be a first target? Of course not. It just wouldn’t make sense. A more plausible explanation for all the Soviet military activity we’re seeing is that since they won’t be having their big parade this year, they’re organizing exercises instead.”

  It was the first week of November, and Soviet television was already broadcasting live coverage into the world news grid of the first groups of Soviet leaders arriving inside Valentina Tereshkova. More transporters were en route, and others, including the UN vessel with the Western VIPs, would be departing from Earth orbit in the next day or so. As the defense secretary had pointed out, they would all be very vulnerable if there were hostilities.

  The factors that made Valentina Tereshkova a virtually unassailable weapons platform didn’t make it automatically a safe haven for people. The reason was that to disable its weapons effectively, the West’s orbiting lasers and other beam projectors would have to knock them all out simultaneously with a first shot. With the devastating and instantaneous return-fire that Tereshkova—if the rumors were true—could bring to bear, there would never be a chance for a second shot. But such a first-shot knockout would be impossible for the simple reason that the West’s weaponry was designed to attack pinpoint targets in space; without knowing exactly where to aim, it would have no chance of surviving long enough to find a few compact, hardened spots on a structure measuring miles around.

  But for people loose in the general volume of the main torus, the situation was different. A salvo from all the West’s orbiting beam weapons fired in unison could blow away enough of the relatively thin skin to decompress the whole ring in seconds. Even if the Soviet weapons operators were protected inside their hardened emplacements, the chances for survival of anyone out in the general colony areas would be slim. That was why the consensus had gone the way it had, leaving Foleda out on his own. If there was anything to what he said, nobody for a moment could see the Soviets acting the way they had.

  The large screen at one end of the room was showing a still picture of the Soviet chairman of the Council of Ministers standing on a rostrum, a garland of flowers hanging down over the front of his suit, addressing a crowd in the main square of Turgenev, inside Tereshkova, minutes after his party had descended from the docking facilities at the hub. It was from a clip of the latest Soviet news bulletin, which th
e people at the meeting had watched earlier and not bothered to turn off. Behind the crowd were glimpses of Tereshkova’s bewildering, Oz-like architecture, and above, the strange curving sky with its elongated suns.

  Foleda leaned back and extended a hand briefly to indicate the screen. “Just suppose,” he suggested, “that what we saw there a little while ago isn’t happening at all. Wouldn’t that make a difference?”

  The President shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean, not happening, Mr. Foleda? I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Of course it’s happening,” the secretary of state muttered impatiently. “I’m starting to wonder if this is happening.”

  “We know the transmission is coming in from the Soviet news service, that’s all,” Foleda said. “But how do we know that the events it’s showing are happening now—up there inside Mermaid, right at this moment?”

  “NASA’s picking up the TV transmissions from Mermaid independently of the Soviet news broadcasts down here,” Collins said. “There’s no question that’s where it’s coming from, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Look at the screen,” the secretary of state said, gesturing. “You can see where it is.”

  “That only demonstrates that a signal is being transmitted down from Mermaid,” Foleda persisted. “No, that wasn’t my question. What I said was, how do we know that the events that it depicts are actually taking place right now?” He looked around the table. Nobody seemed to be quite with him. He drew a breath. “How do we know that it isn’t all something they did months ago—that what they’re transmitting isn’t a recording, just like what we’re looking at on the screen here?”

  “We can see the ships arriving up there . . .” the secretary of state started to answer automatically, but then his voice trailed away as he realized that it didn’t mean very much. Everyone else saw it too, and Foleda didn’t bother pointing out the obvious.

  “That has to be ridiculous,” the defense secretary declared, sitting back abruptly.