Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: April/May 2014 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #459 & #460
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agreement that Methusaleh would never consciously know had been struck.
Jimmy relaxed more deeply. The passageway became a place of surpassing comfort. Everything felt welcoming.
Then the light at the far end snapped out, and Jimmy came blinking and dry-mouthed from his altered state.
He didn't know why the assay had ended, but his control had certainly slipped. The prisoner sat just as before. Jimmy rose. Later, Jimmy would probe farther. He knew—with a confidence he had never felt before, not during his training nor his time in Iraq—that a bond was established, that all would be well, that right would triumph and the truth would be revealed.
Evening, and the prisoner, so cunning, thought Jimmy, a man rich in talents and knowledge, once a powerful and secretive force upon the earth, slept. Not long afterward, the lights in the cell automatically switched off. Jimmy, who had learned some tricks from the manual—an unmarked binder stuffed in one of the wall cabinets— switched on the night vision, rendering everything in the next room a grainy green.
He zoomed in on the prisoner's back, the man having settled securely into the mattress. For all his cleverness and capabilities, his mind at rest would be defenseless.
The space between them, Jimmy's cautious construct, welcomed Jimmy back. He stood before the screen, hands splayed in open air, eyes shut. He felt forward along the gray passage.
At some point, he became aware of his hands at his sides, his head slumped down. More tired than he had realized, he must have fallen asleep. That would not do.
In the dark room, he banged his hip against the long table when he turned for bed. Yes, he was too tired to properly do his job.
Twice that night, he awoke startled from dreams.
Mouth stuffed with dirt, he twisted through the earth. He felt no panic, though unaware that he was dreaming. This would be his life from now on. There should have been no light, yet his eyes could see the solid rock parting for him as he shifted. He knew he wasn't alone. Others were coming.
He woke with a gummy tongue, tasting bitter stone. He remembered putting a rock in his mouth as a child, hiding a piece of mica from a friend's collection, then spitting it back out.
The second dream—and this he knew to be a dream—placed him in the old man's cell. Seated on a chair, arms bound behind him, perhaps by chains, he stared at the yellow wall, knowing he was watched from the other side—not only by Methusaleh himself, but by a crowd. Obscurely, he saw them, smoky images beyond the barrier, tier upon tier of silent witnesses. How ashamed he felt. He cried in an unaccustomed way, mouth severely downturned, cheeks sore from salt. When he woke, he touched his face and found it dry.
He swore aloud. Above the door hung an old-style analog clock, its white face faintly lambent. Three in the morning. He needed more sleep.
He dreamed and did not wake, turned in his sleep, then dreamed again.
Morning came obscurely, Jimmy waking in the dark, uncertain where he was. Even after he sat up, saw the outline of objects by the clock's spectral glow, and determined his whereabouts, he felt bereft of a context. Not waiting to come fully to himself, he left the room for the bathroom in his quarters.
Splashing water on his face, he remained unresolved, as if he'd not completely solidified from some half-immaterial state. He glanced into his own eyes. He sensed that, prior to waking, he had glancingly seen some insight just before it vanished around a corner. It left him unable to meet his own eyes. Looking aside, he brushed his teeth, washclothed his pits and privates, then left the bathroom to change into fresh clothes, all still stuffed in his duffel, his final tan shirt wrinkled. He frowned at the shirt, but put it on, eager to get back to the passageway. An answer would be waiting there.
No matter the physical position he assumed, the prisoner appeared, shortly after every meal, to nap. After
Jimmy relaxed more deeply. The passageway became a place of surpassing comfort. Everything felt welcoming.
Then the light at the far end snapped out, and Jimmy came blinking and dry-mouthed from his altered state.
He didn't know why the assay had ended, but his control had certainly slipped. The prisoner sat just as before. Jimmy rose. Later, Jimmy would probe farther. He knew—with a confidence he had never felt before, not during his training nor his time in Iraq—that a bond was established, that all would be well, that right would triumph and the truth would be revealed.
Evening, and the prisoner, so cunning, thought Jimmy, a man rich in talents and knowledge, once a powerful and secretive force upon the earth, slept. Not long afterward, the lights in the cell automatically switched off. Jimmy, who had learned some tricks from the manual—an unmarked binder stuffed in one of the wall cabinets— switched on the night vision, rendering everything in the next room a grainy green.
He zoomed in on the prisoner's back, the man having settled securely into the mattress. For all his cleverness and capabilities, his mind at rest would be defenseless.
The space between them, Jimmy's cautious construct, welcomed Jimmy back. He stood before the screen, hands splayed in open air, eyes shut. He felt forward along the gray passage.
At some point, he became aware of his hands at his sides, his head slumped down. More tired than he had realized, he must have fallen asleep. That would not do.
In the dark room, he banged his hip against the long table when he turned for bed. Yes, he was too tired to properly do his job.
Twice that night, he awoke startled from dreams.
Mouth stuffed with dirt, he twisted through the earth. He felt no panic, though unaware that he was dreaming. This would be his life from now on. There should have been no light, yet his eyes could see the solid rock parting for him as he shifted. He knew he wasn't alone. Others were coming.
He woke with a gummy tongue, tasting bitter stone. He remembered putting a rock in his mouth as a child, hiding a piece of mica from a friend's collection, then spitting it back out.
The second dream—and this he knew to be a dream—placed him in the old man's cell. Seated on a chair, arms bound behind him, perhaps by chains, he stared at the yellow wall, knowing he was watched from the other side—not only by Methusaleh himself, but by a crowd. Obscurely, he saw them, smoky images beyond the barrier, tier upon tier of silent witnesses. How ashamed he felt. He cried in an unaccustomed way, mouth severely downturned, cheeks sore from salt. When he woke, he touched his face and found it dry.
He swore aloud. Above the door hung an old-style analog clock, its white face faintly lambent. Three in the morning. He needed more sleep.
He dreamed and did not wake, turned in his sleep, then dreamed again.
Morning came obscurely, Jimmy waking in the dark, uncertain where he was. Even after he sat up, saw the outline of objects by the clock's spectral glow, and determined his whereabouts, he felt bereft of a context. Not waiting to come fully to himself, he left the room for the bathroom in his quarters.
Splashing water on his face, he remained unresolved, as if he'd not completely solidified from some half-immaterial state. He glanced into his own eyes. He sensed that, prior to waking, he had glancingly seen some insight just before it vanished around a corner. It left him unable to meet his own eyes. Looking aside, he brushed his teeth, washclothed his pits and privates, then left the bathroom to change into fresh clothes, all still stuffed in his duffel, his final tan shirt wrinkled. He frowned at the shirt, but put it on, eager to get back to the passageway. An answer would be waiting there.
No matter the physical position he assumed, the prisoner appeared, shortly after every meal, to nap. After
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