The Eggs of 113
By Sarah McEvoy
Copyright 2012 Sarah McEvoy
To Paul D, with thanks for the original inspiration
* * * * *
Unit H51 wasn’t called a prison, because it mattered very much what things were called. Besides, a casual observer walking through it could very easily have taken it for a residential or business sector of the Mars-Two complex. The corridors were as bland and faceless as they were anywhere else, the soft even lighting casting no shadows, and the sliding doors which led off them into the separate rooms were the same dull, uniform metallic grey. There were guards on duty, naturally, but no more than there were in any other part of the complex. After all, they were hardly needed. The difference between Unit H51 and the rest of the complex could only be seen from the inside of one of the rooms.
There was the usual button to open the doors on the outside. But on the inside, there was none.
One of the doors slid open. Someone walked in. A middle-aged man, who was lying on his inadequate bed staring contemplatively at the ceiling, regarded his visitor with mild interest.
“Ah,” he observed, quite cordially. “You aren’t one of the regulars. Welcome to the job.”
The visitor was taken aback. It wasn’t the kind of reaction he had expected. “I’m not one of the staff here,” he replied, closing the door with the little remote controller which had been programmed to work only with the unique identity chip implanted in his hand. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
The prisoner grinned engagingly. “Even better! Does this mean I get a morning off the torture machines?”
The psychiatrist frowned. “You are mistaken, 113. They are not torture machines. They are Pavlovian stimulators, as you have been told many times. The aim of the machines is to reinforce your positive beliefs about society and weaken the negative ones. They are for your own good.”
“Oh? Ever tried one?” The prisoner swung himself round into a sitting position, with a surprising grace for a man who had put on some weight with the advancing years. “Come and have a seat, do. I’m afraid there’s only the end of the bed, but if they won’t give me a chair how in space do they expect me to entertain visitors properly?” He paused. “And, by the way, my name’s not 113. Feel free to call me Uldar.”
“You know very well that is against protocol, 113,” replied the psychiatrist firmly, sitting down. “Now then. I’ve read your file thoroughly, so you don’t have to tell me about anything that happened in the past. I’m well aware of the fact that you’ve been convicted for heterodoxy, specifically for your interest in historic languages. What I am here to do today is to assess your current situation in order to decide whether it would be more appropriate to transfer you to a dedicated criminal psychiatric unit, in view of your intransigence so far under routine treatment.”
“H’mm,” said Uldar, a curious smile lighting his face. “Let’s see. A rough translation of that would be, you’ve come to see if I’m crazy because I haven’t responded so far to torture. Yes?”
The psychiatrist was annoyed. “Your use of the word ‘torture’ is extremely negative, and a wilful misunderstanding of the treatment you are currently undergoing,” he snapped.
Uldar shrugged. “I could show you some of the scars,” he offered. “Or would that put you off your breakfast?”
The psychiatrist ignored him. “First of all,” he said, in a voice that suggested it was about time he got down to some business, “I want you to explain to me why the study of historic languages is societally inappropriate.”
Uldar sighed. “I can tell you what I’ve been told,” he replied. “I assume that’s what you want to hear. I have had it explained to me, forcibly and at some length, that the study of historic languages is divisive because there is a risk of re-establishing communication barriers and petty nationalisms.”
The psychiatrist raised an eyebrow. “You don’t appear to be convinced of that.”
“Absolutely not,” replied Uldar. “For that to happen, people would have to take it to utter extremes and forget Terran English altogether. Why would anyone want to do that, when it’s so convenient to have a language in common?”
“Then why waste time learning others?” countered the psychiatrist.
Uldar grinned boyishly. “For fun? Listen, did you know that in Italian the word for ‘hedgehog’ is the same as the word for ‘curly’? If you asked most people what the defining characteristic of a hedgehog was, they’d say it was spiky, but to the Italians it was the fact that it could curl up in a ball. Don’t you think that’s interesting?”
“Why should anyone be interested in people’s psychological perceptions of an extinct animal?”
“Well, you should know that. Psychology’s your pigeon, after all.” Uldar let out a sigh. “You know what I could really do with more than anything? A nice cup of coffee. Real coffee, not that dreadful synthetic muck out of the machines. Ever tried it?”
“The drink that comes from the machines is real coffee,” replied the psychiatrist patiently. “There is no other kind.”
Uldar grinned again. “Either you haven’t lived, or you’re just trying to make yourself feel better. Of course there’s real coffee! You just have to know where to get it. Do you have a name, by the way?”
“Not one that is relevant to you, 113.”
“I thought you might say that, but I had to ask. All right, then, I’ll call you… let me see… Alberto. You look as though you might just have a bit of Italian in you somewhere.”
“You will not call me that,” retorted the psychiatrist.
“What have I got to lose?” replied Uldar, reasonably. “I’m going to be back on the torture machines this afternoon whatever happens. For as long as you refuse to give me your real name, you’re Alberto. You ought to be thankful I didn’t call you Scumbag or something. Fortunately I’m not the type.”
The psychiatrist gritted his teeth. “I see the Chief Administrator did not exaggerate your social problems. Well then, 113, I want you to try to justify to me why you think you should be allowed back into normal society.”
“H’mm,” replied Uldar. “Normal society. That would be a good idea. When do you think it’ll happen?”
“When you are prepared to co-operate,” answered the psychiatrist, deliberately misunderstanding the pronoun.
“I don’t think you quite followed me,” said Uldar mildly. “I meant I wondered when normal society would happen. Do you honestly think that what we have at the moment is normal? When a man can be tortured simply for an interest in languages?”
“You are a highly intelligent man, 113. How is it that you simply don’t appear to be able to comprehend the seriousness of your crime?”
“Well, since we’re exchanging compliments now, you’re obviously pretty bright yourself, Alberto. So, tell me – how is it that you don’t understand the fact that you live in a society that’s skewed so badly there’s no humanity left in it?”
The psychiatrist glared at him. “No humanity? I can assure you, 113, that no effort or expense is being spared to try to rehabilitate you.”
“H’mm. I’m honoured.” He flashed the psychiatrist a wry smile. “And supposing my IQ were 75 rather than 175, as it in fact is? Would the same effort and expense be put into attempting to force me into monotonous conformity? You know, I rather think not.” He leaned back easily against the wall. “Oh dear, I’m getting terribly cynical in my old age, don’t you think? Anyway, I don’t think this conversation is really getting either of us anywhere, but since you’re here, would you like to have a look at my eggs?”
The psychiatrist frowned in puzzlement. “Your eggs?” he repeated.
; “Yes. My eggs. After all, I have to have something to do in here, so I’ve become a bit of a collector.” He smiled again. “It passes the time and keeps me sane, if the word has any meaning any longer.”
“A collector?”
“Of course. I’ll just get the box. Excuse me.” He rummaged under the bed. “What I could really do with is a nice display cabinet, but you know how things are, I’m sure. Beggars can’t be choosers.” He reappeared, apparently holding something quite heavy in his hands. “Just move over a little that way, if you would… thank you. Now I can put it down here.”
“What are you talking about, man? There’s no box. There’s nothing there!”
Uldar grinned. “You’re not looking carefully enough, are you, Alberto? Now let me just open it, if I can find the key.” He rummaged in the pocket of his thin regulation trousers, produced a small invisible key, and made a convincing performance of opening the box.