His reaction was noticed by McArthur. “You’ll get used to it.”
“How long do I keep this?”
“The longer the better, but after a couple of weeks your system will have completely recovered. You can take it off any time, if uncomfortable. Considering the length and hardships of your sojourn, you are remarkably fit.”
“Glad to hear it since I feel weak.”
“Some time in normal gravity should fix that. Muscle atrophy is nothing to worry about if slowly rebuilt.”
“What is normal gravity for this station?”
McArthur looked at the silent psychologist and Mrs. Burns took over. “The last floor has exactly 75% of a G. Does that shock you, Mr. Koulikov?”
“A little. How do space workers maintain muscles and bones strong enough for earth if they stay years in these conditions?”
The psychiatrist’s head leaned back while she stared.
McArthur cleared his throat. “You must know—”
“I think,” cut in Mrs. Burns, “I will postpone my evaluation while Dr. McArthur finishes his work. Just one question, Mr. Koulikov. How much time of your daily routine did you devote to keeping up to date with current events?”
“I wasn’t sent there to browse websites. Time spent outside my immediate assignment would have been detrimental to my statistics and performance ratios. I woke up, fixed the problems, went back to sleep.”
“Amazing,” said Mrs. Burns. “I’ll see you both shortly.” She left the room.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” McArthur called over his shoulder. “Okay, how familiar are you with your DNA modifications?”
“I know what they told me. Why don’t we compare notes?”
“Easily done,” said the doctor. He turned to the wall and simply requested, “Last full Palmer scan on main screen.”
The entire sidewall became alive with colors and swirling images.
Vladimir closed his eyes to stop the dizziness and felt McArthur steadying him. I can’t believe this. “I’m sorry, I was fine a minute ago. I’ve never felt so weak during my entire time on B-114.”
“The effort of simply standing in higher gravity can sneak up on you,” explained the doctor. “Don’t fight it and sit down. Well, your results are quite ordinary, with your vitamin deficiency clearly demonstrated by the graphs to the right. What we want is the DNA part of the analysis, there at the bottom left. According to Palmer you have only two modified DNA strands to your credit. Accurate so far?”
“Very.”
“You were given the ability to survive frequent and long periods of cryogenic sleep along with slowly degenerating muscle tissue. You are a classic spacer of the mid twenty-first century. Did I forget anything?”
“No. Maybe we should postpone the coming meeting. I’m not feeling up to it,” said Vladimir with a head shake. This is ridiculous.
“I’ll tell you what, we’ll continue our medical discussion later and simply hop across the corridor to meet the others. It won’t take long, I promise you.”
“Okay. Sorry about the inconvenience. This is so strange.”
“It happens,” said the doctor as he helped his patient across the corridor. Vladimir felt nauseated and was glad to finally drop into a soft seat inside the next room.
“You appear exhausted, Mr. Koulikov,” said Ian.
Jeez, do I? Vladimir opened his eyes and focused on the man in front. He saw the assistant and the lawyer hanging back and staring at him. “I’m sorry. I’ve never felt like this before.”
“Please, stop apologizing, Mr. Koulikov. There is absolutely no need for that. You just came back from a 152 year tour of duty. You’re entitled to a moment of weakness.”
“It’s not me…being weak…I don’t understand.”
“That’s all right. We won’t hold it against you. Mrs. Burns tells us you are not well acquainted with current politics. Am I right?”
Vladimir blinked away some dizziness. “Yeah.”
“She tells us you haven’t read on outside events since you left for B-114?”
“I was busy.”
“Of course you were, and wonderful work you did. Such an accomplishment deserves an exceptional reward, and your contract stipulates a very large sum of money. You do know about your contract, Mr. Koulikov?”
Vladimir raised his head and focused on the president. Why is he talking to me like this? “I know my contract by h-heart.”
“I see. Would you like us to open a bank account for you and transfer the owed funds while you rest? It is a substantial amount.”
“I won’t be able to make that decision until I see how much Space Alloy shares are worth.”
“Shares, Mr. Koulikov?”
“Yes, my contract gives me the option of—”
“I am not aware of any benefit participation concerning your agreement. I think it would be much more advantageous to let us advise you on your best remuneration option.”
“No need to trouble yourself. As soon as I can get my feet under me, I’ll review my…my options and decide on a c-course of action. Maybe I’m having a reaction to this wristband.”
Vladimir saw heads moving in front of him. McArthur finally nodded and a tingle was instantly felt in his left wrist. Vladimir felt himself sinking in the cushy chair, his eyelids suddenly filled with lead. Someone was raising his voice but he didn’t care, didn’t want to be here. He longed for the solitude of his mining module; where it was quiet and cool; where nobody got excited over contracts. Who was talking now? Vladimir tried to listen.
“…every man’s tolerance is different,” said McArthur to justify himself. “You ordered the last dose. It’s on your head.”
“Well, it might be just as well,” said the president. “Too bad he left us so soon. Martina, what sort of difficulties do you anticipate?”
“Absolutely none. Considering his limited knowledge and the condition, he will be kept into…”
Vladimir drifted to another place, wondering what the next problem would be on his mining module when he woke up.
* * *
Like every morning, Greg Labelle watched patients file out of their rooms and line up for breakfast. The three walls around him were partitioned in dozens of independent images giving him close-ups of any individual he chose, in any area of the huge, underground complex. He stretched his long legs and leaned back while going through the motions of selecting a particular patient or watching the interaction of a group. It was a well-developed routine accomplished by a confident man on familiar ground.
Greg knew all the patients under his care. More than that, he had an intimate rapport with all of the 76 occupants of aisle G. He knew who was suffering from what and to what degree. He knew who was prone to provoke others, who was inclined to react to said provocations, who would be physically aggressive, and who would be submissive. Some patients were totally irrecoverable, while others only flirted with insanity. Sometimes it was hard to say which was which. The dangerous ones were constantly on his screen, and he could tell at a glance from their facial expressions if they were planning something. He could usually react to whatever happened in the detention center as it happened and totally control the situation from his command center. In his line of work, experience and knowledge were essential.
Within two minutes, he had a good idea of the ambiance below and the general mood of the crowd. They were all quiet and docile, as usual, and dragging seemingly heavy feet on the slick, orange floors. All the floors were the same color, untouched and untainted slabs of Martian rock from the original digging work, sometimes offering geometric patterns in the bigger rooms.
But patients never noticed or referred to this architectural detail and kept moving forward, heads bobbing along the line with regularity. Of course, most of them were suffering from pronounced schizophrenia and any meaningful contact was difficult. These men and women had been among the most intelligent of those born off earth.
To look at them now was depr
essing, with their empty stares and internal debates, their meaningless conversations, their outbursts of raw uncontrolled emotions, their total uselessness to the community. Those not originally from Mars had to adapt to Martian gravity, the heaviest of the system apart from Earth.
A small number eventually returned to active duty, those suffering from burnouts or nervous breakdowns. This small, select club were regular clientele of the Martian facility. They were rarely troublesome, and it just seemed that for some of them, the difficulties were cyclical, even predictable. When telltale signs appeared, these people were sent to Mars, to Greg Labelle’s care.
A gap in the line caught his attention, and for a second he thought someone was missing. He then realized who was there and adjusted the camera. A short, squat man walked with the flow of moving bodies. His stature told the world that he wasn’t a spacer but a crawler, a man born and raised on Earth. Although Vladimir Koulikov had only been at the center for sixteen months, his presence was barely noticeable. He constantly drooled on himself and bloodshot eyes showed that he was unaware of his surroundings.
Greg verified his file for the tenth time. The man had come from Space Alloy and been born over 180 years ago in the United States. He had worked on a mining station for 152 years and returned to civilization completely mad. Cryogenic temperature variations had caused irreversible brain damage. The poor bastard was now an unstable wreck prone to violent outburst made terrible by his Earthly strength, which totally warranted the large doses of tranquilizers constantly administered by his wristband.
Strangely enough, this dangerous strength was maintained by daily exercises every patient had to do. Automated machines kept you in shape whether you wanted it or not; even a vegetable could be coerced, with small electroshocks, to push or pull cushioned levers.
Mr. Koulikov’s sessions were much more intense than anything the others could have managed. He did have, according to results, an athlete’s heart and a metabolism much above even Earth standards.
He also had the strongest drug prescription Greg had ever seen, but then he was the first Earthman ever confined to the Martian institute. The prescription was specified by Space Alloy’s senior physician, approved by a qualified psychiatrist, and not scheduled for revision since the damage was permanent.
Not that he cared for the crawler, but to drug a man this way seem overcautious considering the facility’s security level. Movement higher up the line took his attention away, and Greg quickly forgot about Vladimir Koulikov.
* * *
“Did you get it?” asked Bethany.
“Of course,” answered her companion.
They were hunched over their meal, sitting in front of each other at the cafeteria’s central table. Under loose fitting, white clothes were the thin and frail bodies of low gravity spacers; men and women born and raised in close to zero gravity for most of their lives. Sitting not far away was a teenager energetically debating religious concepts with herself, using body motions and head shakes. A man behind her was drumming a complex symphony on the table with fingers and knuckles. Still further on were two men laughing and joking like drunken spacers after a six month tour of duty.
“Where is it?” Bethany whispered while expertly using the background noise as cover.
“In my left shoe. Are you sure this is worth it?”
“Hey, you wanna spend the rest of your life in here?”
“No, but if I get caught it’s not going to look good in my next evaluation.”
“Don’t worry, your next evaluation will be your last one. You’re due in five days, and I’m in three weeks. We’ll be out of here by the end of the month.”
“I wish I had your confidence. What if you get out and I don’t?”
“You worry too much. We’ll both get out.”
“Why are you so sure of everything today?”
“Because I found a way to reach Greg’s office.”
Peter choked on a piece of food. He waited a good ten seconds before speaking again. “You’re mad.”
“Not at all.”
“Why would you want to do this anyway? You won’t have access.”
“Oh, yes I will…trust me. I know what I’m doing.”
“I trust you with hardware, but how are you going to get up there?” Peter glanced at the large windows of the observation deck six meters above the side of the common room. He could see Labelle’s extended feet on his couch as he watched his screens.
“The crawler, of course. He’s strong. He can lift me up there.”
“Beth, you’re a hacker, not an acrobat.”
“I once saw an Earth woman unload an entire shuttle payload by herself, in less than eight hours. These people are…physical. I won’t need to do anything. He’ll just prop me up there.”
“The windows are going to be closed.”
“Greg leaves the left one open on Wednesday nights because he hates the smell of cleaning drones.”
“Even at the end of his stubby arms you won’t reach the windows.”
“He’ll be standing on a table.”
“Where is he going to get a table?”
“From here, where do you think?”
Peter looked at the massive, plastic structure able to sit six people on each side and shook his head. “You’re mad. These things are bolted to the floor.”
“That’s not going to be a problem for the crawler. Did you see the size of his hands?”
“No, but I can’t wait to see him try to move this thing. Did he agree to do it?”
“That’s why I need the patch, not for me, for him. I tried to ask him, but his wristband is constantly injecting. He’s totally out.”
“You want to put the patch on him?”
“We have to.”
“Did you ever stop to think that there might be a good reason for his injections? We don’t belong here but maybe he does.”
“We’ll have to chance it. There’s no other way.”
“You really are a nutcase,” mumbled Peter. “How do we put the patch on him?”
“Easy, he always sits in that corner before nap time. You sit next to him and slip the patch on. We’ll have a chat with our boy when he wakes up.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair and looked around the room, obviously uncomfortable with the plan. “Okay, but it’s on your head if anything goes wrong.”
Bethany patted his knee. “Let’s split up. I’ll be in the library if you need me.”
Peter nodded and quietly finished his meal. Later, he ambled toward the exercise room. Bethany was nowhere to be seen and was probably logged on. Cyber reality was more real than life for the young woman, a pastime so consuming it became a priority over everything; family, job, hobbies. It all ceased to exist for those hooked on cyber reality. When the disconnection became too much, people were sent to the Martian Mental Institute to learn moderation.
Peter was here for totally different reasons. He attempted to commit suicide while working as a bio-engineer for the reproduction institute. After years of treatment for bipolar disorder, the drugs simply stopped working. He was now on a different dosage and felt normal again. To keep him in here against his will was just not right.
He eventually drifted to the crawler’s corner and sank next to him while looking straight ahead. He turned when he felt eyes on him and stared into bloodshot orbs that didn’t seem to see; they were rendering such an uncomprehending expression, such a complete disconnection with their surroundings, that Peter automatically compared his situation with Beth’s. They were both unaware of the real word.
Peter took the man’s large hand and turned it over in his lap, pretending to stare at its shape. The crawler didn’t seem to notice what was happening, and his attention was quickly replaced by something at the other end of the room. The wide wrist band hissed as a dose of tranquilizer was injected.
With patience and discretion, Peter managed to retrieve the patch from his shoe and slip it between wrist band and skin. T
hese patches were undetectable, extremely thin, and prevented injections from reaching the system. In a couple of hours the crawler would be back to his natural state, whatever that was.
Hopefully Greg Labelle hadn’t spotted the procedure and the wristband wouldn’t detect the anomaly.
“Meet you in a couple of hours,” said Peter as he got up and walked away.
The crawler never noticed.
* * *
Bethany stopped and instantly noticed the change. The man was staring around him, his eyes alive and roaming. He was still in the main room where he spent most of his time, but no longer part of the furniture.
And then he saw her and knew that she was watching him. She quickly looked away but it was too late. He got his legs under him and walked toward her with assurance. Without knowing exactly why, Bethany was afraid. The man stopped next to her.
“Where am I?” he asked calmly.
“Don’t talk, just listen,” she whispered. “Go back to the wall and sit down. Look at the floor. I’ll join you in a minute.” She walked away.
Peter was waiting at the other end of the long room, and together they returned to the crawler. After nap time, most patients simply walked about and enjoyed their free time before the evening meal.
Bethany and Peter sat to the crawler’s right without looking at him.
“Where am I?” he asked instantly.
“Don’t look at us,” whispered Peter. “We’re being monitored by cameras. Don’t bother to try to find them, they’re not visible. We’re in the McDouglass Martian Mental Institute.”
“What for?”
“Because we’ve all been diagnosed as abnormal. This is the nuthouse.”
The earthman was silent for a second. “How long have I been here?”
“I’ve been here four months. You were already here when I got in.”
Peter looked at Bethany and she shook her head.
“Why can’t we talk normally?”
“See that wristband? It’s constantly injecting you with enough drugs to make you a walking vegetable. We placed a patch on your skin to prevent that. Don’t look now! If they realize that your wristband is no longer working, they’ll take the patch away.”
“Why? Why is this happening to me?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. You must have done something, and they caught you. I don’t want to know about it.”