A Long Time Until Now (70 page)

CHAPTER 44

At once they were at the table, grabbing pitchers and sniffing.

Martin Spencer went for hot, sweet coffee. He grabbed the carafe, poured it into a cup, sipped to check the temperature, then guzzled it down. Oh, fucking God, that was good, he thought, as it suffused his tastebuds. It was sweet, savory, spicy, unlike any coffee he’d ever had, but it was coffee, it was wonderful, and it was hot. Oh, Jesus, that was better than sex. Probably.

He tried to sip, but realized he was gulping. He’d finished a pint-sized cup that fast. And he was already getting a buzz. Shit.

“The food is ready.”

The table slumped and reformed, and a line of platters appeared.

“RYE BREAD!” he shouted. There was a plate of cookies, steak, chicken, pork, fish of some kind, sweets . . .

He grabbed a plum of some kind, took a bite, and it was so sweet. And not a plum. It was a seedless grape, a good two inches in diameter.

He grabbed a warm miniloaf of rye about four inches across, used a paddlelike spreader to coat it thickly in butter, and took a huge bite.

Oh, God, that was even better. He munched, swallowed, finished it. He grabbed a plate and put sautéed mushrooms on it, with some salmon. That disappeared and he followed it with a classic bottle of Coke, until he was belching. Then he went for the cookies.

They had beer. One was a red ale.

He looked over to see Gina eating chocolate, her expression blissful but with tears streaming. Under her chair, the cat dug into a bowl of something shredded and pink, gulping bites, then looking around to make sure no one was challenging him for it. He didn’t look domestic at all.

All Martin remembered afterward was that he’d never eaten so well in any restaurant. He was stuffed, in mild pain, and almost ill from the sudden influx of sugar, starch and caffeine. He slumped back in the chair and wondered if there were some ulterior motive, with this to soften them up. Because at this point, he’d say or do anything to avoid the Stone Age.

Then the pain started increasing, along with nausea. The food was too much, too rich, too fast, and he was going to be painfully, violently sick, he hoped. It would be worse if he didn’t.

He slid out of the chair onto the ground, because it was cooler and evened out his blood flow slightly. He noted the floor was perfectly smooth, no seams.

The attendant asked, “Are you not well?”

“Ate too much. Nausea.” He hoped that was enough info.

“I have summoned a physician.”

A moment later, he heard running footsteps. A figure appeared, this one androgynous.

She? said, “You are suffering from dietary shock?”

“That’s probably it, yes.” He tried not to double up. It felt better momentarily, but then he’d have to stretch out again. There was no way to get comfortable, and he hoped they could induce vomiting. He’d feel better for getting rid of it.

“You must drink this,” she said and passed over a vial. He took it and chugged it.

“Grape juice?” he asked. It was cold, fresh and almost too sweet.

“Grape juice is the carrier. You must all drink. I will advise the attendant to moderate your diets.” She handed a vial to each of them.

He crawled to his knees, awaiting the vomit, and hoping she had a basin, or maybe they had robot floor mops. Then he realized he felt a bit better.

Then he felt a lot better. Then he felt normal.

“Thank you very much,” he said. “What did that do?”

“It has inhibited your enzymic digestive process, and is deconstructing the food into component materials.”

“It’s digesting for me?”

“It is not an exact process. Your elimination will be abnormal.”

That was probably better than throwing up. Probably.

He wasn’t aware the doctor had left, but he was aware he was in his chair again, and completely vegged out. The gray background was so neutral it was invisible.

Everyone seemed to be pretty stunned and lethargic. And he realized it was a potential problem, because their control would be lacking.

“Attendant, I need to adjust a setting,” he said.

“Ready,” the computer, if it was a computer, replied.

“Can you please limit the alcohol to . . . I’m not sure of servings, hold on.”

“I wait.”

Martin said, “Alcohol content should not elevate our blood ratio beyond approximately one tenth of one percent. This level should not be reached more than once a day.”

“I accept the input.”

“This is a collective decision and only the captain may authorize variations.”

“I accept the input.”

“Are you a person or machine?”

“The inquired choices do not permit a comprehensible answer. I am more constructed than birthed. My status is acceptable to me and undefinable by your terms. If I am unable to assist, an individual will respond, as the physician did.”

“What is our location?”

“You are in a quarantine facility.”

“Where is it located?”

“I cannot share that information.”

“Are we allowed to tour the facility?”

“You may examine anything in this room. The staff will have to decide if visits to other areas are permissible.”

“Can we see outside the facility?”

“Please define if you wish a viewing window of scenery, or to leave the facility.”

“Please answer both.”

“I can provide a viewing window of any natural habitat. I do not have permissions for you to leave this room.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to check out this bathroom and shower. How many facilities are there?”

“The relief and sanitary facilities are sufficient for any or all of you.”

“Thanks.”

It wasn’t the first time he felt nervous about checking out a bathroom, but previously it was either under fire or because some primitive tribalists had been there. This time he was afraid of both observation, and being technically overwhelmed, but damn, to not have to shit in a hole in the ground or over a stream would be so nice.

He approached the wall, where he thought it had been lit earlier, and it melted away. He looked behind him and saw the rest of the room.

“How do I close the door or otherwise make a privacy screen?” he asked.

“The view is one way only, but I can set your preferences to opacity.”

“Please. Am I observed here?”

“I do not have that information. Any observation would be by research personnel. As you are sentient, your consent would be needed for any publication of the record. Any record would most likely be short term for medical and scientific reference only.”

“Thank you.”

Well, that thing looked like a toilet, of a science fictiony, hotrodded, drugged-out fashion. It was certainly very comfortable to sit on, and it took care of the job nicely. There was nothing like exile to the Stone Age to make you appreciate the simple pleasures, like taking a dump in a warm, heated room with a padded seat.

“Is there toilet paper?”

“Referencing. No. If you are done, the system will cleanse you.”

“Okay, I’m done,” he said, trying not to clench up. But it was relatively anticlimactic. Warm water and warm air sprayed, and he felt clean. Trust the future to have a computerized bidet. And it still felt odd talking to one’s computer while doing it.

“What about a shower?”

“The area adjoining is the wash area. Would you prefer a shower to a bath?”

“Wow. For right now, yes, but I certainly would enjoy a soak later.”

“Step in to the shower. The activator is to your left. Think of what you enjoy and the settings will adjust accordingly.”

He was afraid he’d spend hours in the shower, but the hot water the Cogi had provided had given some transition.

“Can I shave?”

“Please describe the grooming style you wish.”

“Really?” He thought about his standard buzz. “Okay. No beard or moustache. Sideburns stop at the forward ear protrusion. Hair one centimeter long all over, blended to three centimeters in front. Tapered and block cut in back.”

“Understood.” He felt something foamy on his face, and then tingly skin. He reached up. Yes, he was missing the lip caterpillar, and it felt funny.

In twenty minutes he was more refreshed than he’d been in years. More so. Apparently, the shower picked up his sexual tension, and a rush of water, air and whatever else had him sagging against the wall in a flush. Really? They’d automated their showers for that?

“Would you like to continue the shower with your partner?”

“Partner?”

“The one you call Gina.”

“She’s not my partner, unfortunately.”

“Interesting. Both your thoughts suggest otherwise.”

“She’s thinking about me right now?”

“I cannot furnish details without permission. Should I ask her?”

“No, not at this point. You can read our thoughts?” That wasn’t unexpected, but was disturbing. He also realized his question had been answered. Damn, he wanted to nail her, and touch her, hold her, feel reassured.

“I cannot read thoughts. I can infer connections from expression and body language, and you did say her name a few moments ago.”

“I did? I better watch that. I’ll admit we’ve shared some thoughts and ideas, but no contact.” He blushed.

“Contact is not necessary for partnering.”

“It mostly is in our time. I guess you’re getting away from that.”

“Relationships are a matter of perception and agreement.”

“Got it. Well, I’d like to finish, I guess.”

“Are you finished showering? Or would you like to continue the stimulation?”

Dear sentient computer. Please jack me off with jets of warm water.

Blushing more, he said, “Please continue. It’s something we’re not that open about.”

“I do not fully comprehend but accept.”

He didn’t think he could continue, with the computer present. But he did have some thoughts, and knowing Gina was interested . . . and the warm water . . .

He leaned against the wall and shook, gasping. Holy crap, that was . . . wow.

It even blew him dry, and seemed to use humidity control as well.

When he stepped out, what looked like a brand new uniform and underwear was hanging on a rack.

The underwear was his brand, but new, without label. It couldn’t be his uniform, either. It felt more comfortable than anything he’d ever worn. The fabric was as smooth as the finest cotton. He dressed and walked back through the wall, which melted around him and he was back in the main room.

From the relaxed but guarded looks he saw, everyone else had made the same discovery. The shower had a setting for sexual release. And it reacted to either thoughts or body language. There was nothing wrong with getting that clean and comfortable, but no one wanted to admit it, and after two years they could read each other very well.

“I may have to shower four times a day for a while,” he said.

Embarrassed giggles turned to relieved laughter. Good. That did it.

“New uniforms,” Trinidad said, holding out an arm.

The captain said, “Yes, duplicated. We have a stack over there.”

“What next?”

Elliott said, “System, do you have a name?”

“My default setting is to be called ‘Attendant’ or ‘House.’ You can set any name you wish and I will respond to it.”

Caswell said, “We could call him ‘Dobby.’”

“No!” Elliott said. “And ‘him’? The voice I hear is female.”

“My voice is optimized for your language and comfort perceptions. While your English is very rich and complex, it is root to one of our dominant languages, as you are aware. The Neolithic language is more awkward, as it lacks terms for many technological developments. I had to create the terms ‘shit pot’ and ‘washing place,’ for example.”

“And how are the Romans taking it?” he asked. He kept looking at the ceiling as he spoke to the Attendant, even if he didn’t really have to.

“They find the facilities impressive but un-intimidating.”

Elliott asked, “But we won’t be able to meet with any of them?”

“I have no control of that matter. I do know status, presence and response of all past-history groups is being discussed by relevant parties who will meet with you when they have concluded.”

“Well, I guess we stick with ‘House,’ though it seems unfriendly.”