Spacetime Donuts (6 page)

Vernor looked at the loach handcuffed to him. "Do you guys have some kind of grudge against the Angels? I mean, haven't things been getting better ever since we started working with Phizwhiz?"

"At the beginning it was all right," the guard answered. "But after last night—"

"Everyone keeps talking about last night. What happened? I've been out of touch."

"Are you kidding me?" the loach answered. "You didn't hear about it? That's complete bullshit. You helped plan it."

Vernor sighed. "Just tell me your version anyway."

"It was the Hollows. It was all fake last night. It started out with the news showing a picture of the Governor being shot. Then some guy who was supposed to be Andy Silver came on and said that Phizwhiz was our enemy and we should go out and start wrecking machines. Some nuts believed it and started trying to tear down the microwave towers. A lot of equipment got smashed and a lot of people got hurt."

Vernor shook his head and sank back against the seat. He wished he had had a chance to take that pill—it would have made it so easy to float out of the police van, out of his body. It was getting dark and he saw several high-rise apartment buildings flash by. Everyone was watching the Hollows. You could look into each of the identical apartments, through the living-room and into the Hollownest; and in every apartment you saw the same Hollow scene, a policeman whipping a naked woman with a belt . . .

"Where are we going?" Vernor asked.

"We'll take you down to the station and book you," the guard answered. "You'll spend the night there, and tomorrow they'll probably ship you out to the prison. Over on the north side."

"What about a trial?"

The guard gave Vernor a funny look, "You'll get a trial."

Before he could ask any more questions they had pulled into the garage under the cop shop. The police van pulled into a stall and a garage door closed behind it. A loach was waiting for them. "Governor wants to see him," he said.

They rode the elevator up to the Governor's office on the top floor of the building. The office was not really as splendid as it should have been. Like everyone else, the Governor had cheap plastic furniture equipped with Hollowcasters to surround the tawdry reality with a sumptuous image. Unfortunately, the average Hollowcaster gave an image which was about as true to life as a five-year-old color television set. Of course it was possible to appreciate these images on their own terms—to admire the swirling flecks of static, the fuzzed edges, the slight hum, the drifting colors—just possible.

The Governor was there in person. Apparently he took great pleasure in being the one to give Vernor the bad news. "The Angels are through," he said through his smile. "Us no longer needs your Youniqueness."

"So who's going to give Phizwhiz soul?" Vernor asked.

"Moto-O is," the Governor responded. "He came to us with a request for the equipment and computer time to
build
a soul for Phizwhiz. Us thinks he knows what he's doing. Right now, Moto-O is getting a nice trouble-free replacement for you all built."

The Governor looked at a list. "You're just about the last one, Maxwell. We got almost all the others when we raided Waxy's last night. Where were you anyway? Helping Turner and Silver screw up the Hollows?" He paused. "If you tell us where they're hiding, we might be able to give you special consideration . . . "

"I don't know what you're talking about," Vernor said. "Phizwhiz must have done the whole thing by himself."

The Governor laughed. "That's not what you all said when he started turning out fusion reactors. No, Phizwhiz can't do anything this exciting on his own. He needs help. But now we're going to have that nice mechanical soul Moto-O's building."

"Hold it," Vernor cried. "How do you know Moto-O's idea is going to work? It might take him years to get the bugs worked out."

The Governor shrugged. "He's got six months. We've got him locked up in the EM building lab. In six months he gets a plain cell like the rest of you." The Governor leaned towards Vernor. "I was going to wait till he was finished before jailing the Angels. Until last night we didn't really have much reason to arrest you. But you guys made it easy for us with your half-assed revolution." He leaned back, "We'll do fine without the Angels."

"Are you kidding?" Vernor protested. "The society's going to die with a stupid machine running it. And it's going to stay dead. Gödel's Incompleteness Theorem says that nobody, not even Moto-O, is able to build a mechanical soul."

"Googol's Unfinished Theorem? Sure, how long ago was that written? Moto-O's a sharp boy. Not a dope addict like the rest of you Angels. My money's on him. And if he's wrong . . . " The Governor seemed to feel a twinge of doubt, but then brushed it aside. "Don't worry about Us, Maxwell. Phizwhiz knows what's good for Us. Goodbye."

Two loaches grabbed Vernor by the upper arms and began marching him out. This was really happening. Desperate, Vernor shouted, "Governor, I've got a new idea. Circular Scale! You can't lock me up. I can take us to the stars!"

"Who cares," the Governor answered without looking up.

The loaches took Vernor downstairs to the cop shop. Suddenly no one seemed very interested in him. He was just another body to process—to voiceprint and holograph. Before he knew it, he was alone in a cell. The other cells were mostly occupied by bums—drunks and junkies. Loud Muzak was playing as a rudimentary form of mind control.

Vernor had often romantically thought of himself as a criminal, but this was his first time in jail. Initially he felt a sort of pride at this outward and visible sign of his differentness, but soon his mood switched to one of shame and anger. The other prisoners were noisy and the Muzak and lights were left on all night.

"I don't really belong here," thought Vernor as he struggled for sleep, "I'm not like these people." And, more strongly than that, "Why didn't I call Alice?"

In the morning he was handcuffed and sent to the security prison in the northern part of the City. He was the only prisoner whose offense was serious enough to warrant this; and his relief at being away from the others' constant talk of matches and cigarettes soon turned to a terrible feeling of isolation.

The security prison was totally automated. The robot-operated paddy wagon drove in, and a door closed and locked behind it. The van opened and Vernor exited to follow a Hollow of a guard through a series of automatically operated doors. Soon he was in a small cell thirty floors above street level. It was with a feeling of great relief that Vernor discovered that he had a cell-mate, a middle-aged conman.

"They're putting a goddamn Dreamer up here with me now," the man observed, noticing Vernor's socket. "Whadja do, kiddo, this floor's reserved for the hardened criminal types like yers truly." The man smiled and rummaged under his bed. "Got my picture in the paper, I did. Here." He handed a yellowing scrap of plastic to Vernor.

It was a clipping from USISU, the national daily newspaper. Vernor had hardly ever seen the paper. When he read, it was science or philosophy, and when he wasn't reading he was usually around people who got all their information from the Hollows. A small picture of his cell-mate was captioned, "Bernard 'Boingy' Baxter," and the accompanying article was headlined "Hollow Con No Wallet."

"I had the sweetest number," Boingy reminisced, "I'd put on this special suit that made me look like a Hollow. You know, it was kind of fuzzy and shiny and had little sparkles all over it. I'd get all cleaned up and then start beating on some Drone's door. Guy'd come out, usually drunk or strung out: 'Huh?' 'Greetings, Citizen!' I'd say. 'I'm a secret Hollow sent here with an important message for you from the President himself.' And the guy is, you know, looking around, and I'd say, 'Long distance Hollowcast from the Pentagon, friend, touch me if you don't believe it.' And I'd hold out my left hand, only, and this was the pisser, it wasn't my real left hand, it was a Hollow of my left hand. My real left hand'd be up my sleeve holding a little Hollowcaster." Boingy paused, and Vernor nodded.

"So the Drone feels the Hollow hand and it seems all right and then I ask him to show me some I.D. so I know it's really him. And he gets out his wallet . . . and then I'd make my move."

"You mean you'd grab the wallet and run?" Vernor asked.

Boingy looked shocked, "I'm a
con
man, not a mugger. No, I'd just look real officious and say, 'Let me examine your money, Citizen. We're searching for counterfeit.'"

"And they'd give it to you?"

"Man, I was from the
government
. By the time they stopped to wonder how a hollow was able to actually
touch
their money and put it in his pocket I'd be gone. Boing." He burst into laughter, almost certainly genuine, though he kept a sharp eye on Vernor's reaction. Vernor laughed.

"I'll probably win my fucking trial," Boingy continued, wiping his eyes, "I mean I didn't threaten them or promise them anything. Just 'Let's have the money.'" He sighed and shook his head, "People are funny." He stopped and looked out the window, sinking back into the unfunniness of his present situation.

"Well," Vernor said finally, "I was an Angel, but now I'm busted. I guess this is part of the trip."

The jail was automated in order to avoid any problems with bribed or kidnapped guards. The blank cell door never opened. Food came out of a spigot over the toilet, just like back in Dreamtown. In Dreamtown the stuff that came out three times a day had been different colors, but in the prison it was always gray. A gray paste—slightly salty, slightly sweet, a little starch, a little meat. "Sort of looks like shit, oozin' out by the toilet like that," Boingy observed at each mealtime, until Vernor attacked him with his fists.

But things reached a balance between them, and Vernor settled in after a few weeks. He thought about Alice all the time. He began to wonder if he wasn't better off without all the dope . . . when he wasn't wondering how to get some. One seeweed seed was all it would take. God knows he had enough piss to grow it in. But he didn't have that one seed...so he returned to his science work.

Vernor had told the Governor that he could get them to the stars. How? It was, to say the least, a little hazy. He began keeping a journal of his fragmented ideas and his daily attempts to piece them together into an answer.

Weeks turned into months. Vernor and Boingy had no contact with the outside world. Occasionally a Hollow of a guard would appear in their cell and give them instructions. Once a Hollow lawyer came to see Vernor, but he was not a great deal of help, as all he did was to deliver a canned speech about how important Vernor's case was to him. Generally, Boingy explained, once you went into the security prison you could expect to go to court after several years, with a good chance of dismissal or suspended sentence at that time.

"I been in here three years," Boingy said, "and the only other person I've seen was the guy before you. They took him out one day and he never came back."

"How did they take him out, when there's nobody here but prisoners?" Vernor asked.

"The door just swung open and a Hollow asked him to come on."

"Why didn't you go with him?"

"The Hollow told me not to," Boingy answered, looking embarrassed. "I shoulda, you're right, but it was the Governor himself. I was scared. They would've seen me."

Vernor determined that when Boingy's trial came he, Vernor, was leaving with him. Alice and the wonderful outside world were waiting for him. Hollows couldn't see, they were just moving pictures. Still, there was bound to be a checkpoint somewhere . . .

The next week a Hollow of the Governor appeared and the door swung open. The Governor's Hollow gave instructions.

"Please come with me, Citizen (zzzt)," there was a pause while a special sound file played, "Bernard Baxter (zzzt)," The standard spiel came back on, "All other prisoners remain in the cell."

Quickly Vernor slipped across the cell and fitted himself inside the Governor's Hollow. A holographic image is an interference pattern formed by two low-intensity electromagnetic fields. The effect is similar to the standing waves that appear in a river's mouth when the tide is running hard. There was no real danger in standing inside a Hollow, the two fields filled the surrounding area anyway, it was just that in the region of the image they were almost in phase with each other.

Standing inside the Governor's Hollow was like being inside a glowing cloud. Now, if Vernor could just match his movements to those of the Governor's Hollow, he could walk out undetected . . . at least until they switched the Hollow off, but it stood to reason they'd leave it on until it had escorted Boingy to the courtroom.

The months of clean living paid off. Vernor's synchronization was such that it felt more as if the Hollow were moving with him than vice-versa.

Without incident, they proceeded out of the cell and down the hall to an elevator. The whole time the Governor was talking—about democracy, fair trials, repentance and the new life, and public safety. "You will notice," the Hollow boomed as the elevator door closed behind them, "that there is a grate in the wall here. This elevator is also our gas chamber, for those clients whose lawyers waive trial. It is fortunate Citizen (zzzt) Bernard Baxter (zzzt) that your cell-mate did not accompany you. Trial is waived in such cases." The Governor and Vernor nodded to a wide-angle camera lens mounted in the wall.

"Oh, no sir," Boingy said, mopping his brow. "He wouldn't do a crazy thing like that."

The elevator door opened to reveal a courtroom. The Hollow lawyer was there, and sitting on the bench was a Hollow of the Governor. Funny they'd have
two
Hollows of him at the same time, Vernor thought . . . but they didn't. He was no longer concealed.

"It was his idea, your honor," Boingy shouted. "I didn't know he was inside you." But the Hollow on the bench was already spieling out its recorded speech. There was no camera in the courtroom.

"Citizen (zzzt) Bernard Baxter (zzzt) you have been sentenced to three years' confinement. It is only fitting that you should gladly make this reparation to Us, whose social fabric you have so grievously soiled. But Us is merciful as well as just. The sentence is suspended provided you sign this release form."