F. M. Busby - The Demu trilogy

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Cage a Man

FOR ELINOR

A Cage There Was

The ceiling above him was low and gray; Barton's first

thought was. What am I doing in the drunk tank? On sec-

ond thought it didn't stink like a drunk tank, and Barton

was far enough awake to know that he was not hung over.

So he sat up and looked around. The first thing he noticed

was that he was naked, along with everybody else. If this

were a drunk tank, it had to be the first coeducational

nude drunk tank in his limited experience.

He could make no guess as to .where he was, or why.

Presumably there was some other place he'd rather be,

somewhere he belonged—but when he tried to think of

one he drew a blank. Briefly, he wondered why the lack

didn't bother him.

He seemed to be the only person awake; at least no one

else was sitting up. Looking, Barton estimated about fifty

persons sprawled in the room, neither crowded nor widely

separated in a space about twenty-five feet square. He

stood, and found the ceiling claustrophobically low: not

much over six feet, clearing his head by a few inches but

heavy'-heavy-hanging over it. He didn't like that.

Floor and walls were gray, as well as the ceiling. Sol-

idly. There were no openings that he could see, anywhere.

There was light, a little yellowish, but no visible sources;

the light was simply there. The gray surfaces were not

luminous and the air did not glow. Barton skipped that;

it wasn't important. What was important was that he had

to take a leak.

No place. He stepped gingerly over and around the

sleeping bodies, noting little about them except that they

breathed. When he accidentally touched one, it was warm.

The floor was at body temperature also, with a slight de-

gree of "give." After exploring the room thoroughly. Bar-

ton was faced with the fact that it was not only solid but

seamless. Yet the air (warm, like the floor) was fresh and

clean. It seemed to move against him gently from all di-

rections, though be could detect no gross air currents.

He still had to pee. Going to one comer of the room,

he considerately rolled the nearest occupant out of splash-

ing range and faced the corner. At first he couldn't do it;

all the times he'd stood in line (at theaters during inter-

mission, at overcrowded facilities in tourist haunts), with

impatient others waiting behind him, came up to clamp

the sphincter tight. Waiting, he finally relaxed and the

flow came. The interesting thing was that at the floor it

simply disappeared: no splash or gurgle. The floor might

as well not have been there. It looked dry, felt dry (Bar-

ton felt it) and had no telltale smell at all (Barton smelled

it).

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He had a sudden wild thought that perhaps the whole

room was an illusion, and gathered a few bruises trying

to launch himself through the floor, a wall, and even the

ceiling, before he decided that in this case liquids had cer-

tain advantages over solids. His guess might be wrong, he

knew, but that didn't mean it was stupid.

Other people were beginning to wake, sit up and even

move around. Barton realized that he hadn't paid enough

attention to the resident population, of which he was

perhaps 2 percent. So he stood quietly in bis corner and

looked.

The people ranged from ordinary to exotic, in Barton's

view. Some were as usual as anyone can be among some

fifty naked persons in a sealed room. Others were notable

for such things as highly stylized patterns of tattooing,

possible cosmetic surgery, and selective depilation. Still

others,. Barton thought, must have come out of a freak

show. Some of them be found hard to believe, but there

they were. The frightening thing, though, was that these

people were beginning to speak among themselves, and

while Barton spoke French and a little German, and could

recognize several other languages, he heard not one famil-

iar word from anyone near him. Well, yes—there was

one over therel

"Anybody here speak ENGLISH?" he bawled out sud-

denly. From the far side of the room came a "YES." Ac-

cented, but unmistakable. Barton began shouldering his

way toward the sound, shouting "ENGLISH" now and

then as a navigational aid.

"English" turned out to be a Doktor Siewen, a tall wiry

man with a great bushy shock of white hair, and some

alarming ideas. He and Barton traded names and shook

hands, the ritual prelude to any constructive activity be-

tween strangers.

"I know considerable languages, Barton," said Siewen,

"and some of them I hear in this place, but not many.

Also I hear people talking in languages I didn't think ex-

ist."

"I thought I knew a lot of ethnic types, myself, but

some of these people don't look like anything I've ever

seen, even in pictures."

'There is also that," Doktor Siewen began, but Just

then he and Barton were knocked apart. A woman pushed

between them; two men were chasing her. There were

strangenesses about all three. One man caught her; the

two sank to the floor together in tight embrace. But the

second man came upon them, kicking and clawing; soon

all three were battling viciously. Barton wasn't sure whose

side the woman was on.

He started to say something,to Siewen, but a great feel-

ing of heaviness came over him. ,His legs collapsed; the

impact half-stunned him. He rolled over painfully, and

was able to see that nearly everyone else was on the floor

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also. The heaviness increased.

"This tells us where we are. Barton," Doktor Siewen

said, in great strain. "Or where we are not. You know

what is this? Artificial gravity, it has to be."

Barton tried to shake the moths out of his brain. "How

about just straight acceleration? I mean, on a spaceship

thing you could get that, couldn't you?"

"On a spaceship with a room this big," said Siewen,

"who could bother to disturb the navigation, only to stop

a little squabble in the zoo?" The heaviness increased into

blackout..,

Barton ached all over; someone was shaking him by the

shoulder. "Wake up, Barton; wake up." It had to be Dok-

tor Siewen, unless the whole thing had been a bad dream,

so Barton opened his eyes. It hadn't been a dream, or else

it still was. Standing beside Siewen was a woman, not like

any Barton had ever seen. Barton stood up; she was taller

than he and very slim.

"Barton, this is Limila," Siewen said. "You can see, she

is not the type human we grow on our world." Limila

smiled; her teeth were small, and by Barton's standards,

too many. She held out a hand for him to shake; it had

an extra finger. A glance downward showed a pair of six-

toed feet. The nails of both toes and fingers were thick

and pointed, clawlike.

"Hello, Barton. Yes?" she said.

"Hello, Limila. Yes." Her hair was odd. It was per-

fectly good shiny black hair, twisted up into a knot at the

crown of her head, but forward of her ears it did not

grow. The front hairline began above one ear and went

straight up and over to the other; Barton recalled an old

movie of Bette Davis playing Queen Elizabeth I. In com-

pensation, at the back it grew solidly down to the base of

the neck. Like she's slipped her wig. Barton thought be-

fore he got his thoughts back on track. "Where's she from,

Doc?"

"We can't yet talk such technical data,*' Siewen said.

"But Limila has been captured a longer time, was in an-

other group with English-speakers, has fantastic talent of

linguistics to learn as far as she has."

"Does she—" He turned to Limila. "Do you know

what any of this is all about?" Her breasts were wrong.

Not in shape, but set very low and wide on the ribcage.

"We are have by the Demu, I think," she said. "No

one know what happen then. No one come back." She

looked away, her eyes half-closed, apparently losing inter-

est in the discussion.

"What's a Demu?" Barton asked. She didn't answer,

and in a moment walked away.

"Now what's wrong with herT*

"We were talking before," Siewen said. ^You were not

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awake for a long time. Barton; finally I worried you were

not all right. But Limila told me of the Demu. Likely she

did not feel to repeat herself.

"The Tilari, Limila's people, have star travel," he con-

tinued. "They are not what you call easy to the mark.

They trade with other races and have respect from all.

But the Demu raid the Tilari or anyone else; they take

people and there is the end of it. They come from no-

where and go back the same way."

"Hell, somebody must know something about them,"

Barton growled. He was getting a little tired of being told

how invincible the Demu were, because he didn't want

to have to believe it.

"They are seldom seen. They have unconsciousness de-

vices, which also derange memory function for a time,

and other ways not to be noticed. They could have slept

everyone here without the gravity if wanting to; that

likely was for threat, to make us to behave better."

"Or maybe just plain sadism," Barton said. "I think Td

like to meet one of them sometime without his magic

gadget. Anybody know what they look like?"

"A small ship of them, raiding scout perhaps, crashed

on Tilara very long time ago. All were killed. The Tilari

just began to study the wreck and the dead ones; then

must have come another ship. The wreck and dead ones

gone, also all but two Tilari in the study group. The two

had gone for food supplies and needed instruments."

"At least somebody lucked out," Barton said. "So

what's their report?"

"I said, a long time ago. Barton. It is all vague, very

vague by now; Limila has only read it in her schooling

as a child.

"She says they were roughly human shape and size.

Hard like stone to the touch. She thinks they have not the

features of face and other things-real people have. But the

Demu think they are the only real people."

"How can anybody know that?"

"Demu picture record, seen by the two Tilari not

taken," said Siewen. "With sound-capsules, from which

their name Demu is learned. By reports, showed unmis-

takably Demu in relation to other races as people to an-

imals."

Barton didn't answer; the concept angered him. The

phrase "hard like stone" stuck in his mind; he had the im-

pression he'd cracked open quite a few rocks in his time,

for one reason or another. His memory was vague but the

picture of a fossil fern came to him, and the smell of a

campfire. A field trip?

"Anything else Limila knows about them?" -^

"Legend, folklore, from other peoples made victims.

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They take you, they use you as domestic animal; maybe

eat you."

"Seems like a long haul to the meat market," Barton

said. "Wouldn't it be easier to breed their own stock from

what they get on the first raid?" /

"As I say. Barton: folklore. But the great fear is not

of being killed or even eaten. There is a story so old, .the

race that first told it is extinct. By supernova, long past.

This is, the goal of the Demu is to make animals into peo-

ple."

"I don't get you."

"If I have it, they catch people to try to turn them into

Demu."

"Oh, come off it. Doc! How could that be?"

"I don't know; Limila doesn't know. But it is said on

many worlds."

"So*s a lot of other horse-puckie, I imagine.** The sub-

ject had no handle he could grasp. He began stretching

and bending, working the aches out of his muscles. Doktor

Siewen shrugged and said nothing more.

Limila was back. She started to say something, but an

excited babble broke out across the room and cut her off

in midsentence. Barton wheeled to see what was going on.

The walls were leaking. At intervals, small jets of liquid

spurted at a height of about five feet. Barton realized he

was deadly thirsty. He wasn't alone; there was a rush.

Barton held back for a moment but decided that if the

Demu wanted to poison them, the air supply would be

simpler.

The water was cool with a slight mineral taste, not un-

pleasant. Then it changed; the liquid became thicker and

milk-colored. Just like Instant Breakfast, Barton thought,

except not sweetened. He found he was hungry, too.

The stuff stopped coming before he'd had enough of it,

but he could feel relief from the low blood-sugar condition

he hadn't consciously noticed. Barton felt a little more as

if he might have some sort of chance in this game after

all. He realized it was silly to feel that way from a mere

shot of nutriment at the whim of his unseen captors. But

what the hell...

He turned from the wall, looking for Siewen or Limila.

The other people of non-Earth origin began to register

with him. They hadn't necessarily had surgery or depila-

tion or tattooing, he saw now; they were simply different

by nature. Some weren't all that different; some were hard

to accept. He decided to work his attitudes out later when

be had the^ime'for it. When things weren't so crowded,

if ever. What be really wanted to do was sit down with

his back to a corner and feel less vulnerable, but his fel-

low captives shared his preference for using the corners

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of the room as urinals; they were all in use.

He noticed a discrepancy, and the vagrant thought

crossed his mind: That's Ainny; I don^t feel constipated.

Then he saw Siewen and moved across the room to join

him.

Their discussion brought no new information or ideas.

Barton got tired of standing or sitting; he lay down and

dozed off. Having his back against the wall was better

than no shelter at all.

Barton was having a good dream; it got better when he

woke up. Limila was all over him. What she had in mind

was obvious, and Barton found that he had no objec-

tions. But first he pulled them both up sitting, looking at

each other; he wanted to see her fully as a person.

Her hair was down and loose; there was a lot more of

it than he would have expected. Her features were so lean

and delicate as to be almost harsh, but her face had

beauty to him, once he was used to its not stopping at the

forehead. Her eyes were the color of liquid mercury, with

more iris and less white than seemed reasonable. And her

Ups curved sweetly as she smiled.

He must have looked for longer than he knew, because

she said, "Will we now?" Barton didn't answer in words.

He found some differences in the way things were angled

and the way some muscles wotked, but he had no com-

plaints.

Not much later he was startled to find that Limila was

on the same friendly terms with Doktor Siewen, but Bar-

ton was realist enough not to try to impose his own ideas

on a lady he didn't understand more than about 5 percent,

if that. In the way he had now, he put everything out of

his mind but the moment. In. fact, some hours later, he

and Limila were exchanging pleasured smiles when he

felt the blackness of approaching unconsciousness. There

wasn't even time to kiss.

The nest time Barton woke, he was alone. The quali--

ties of the room were the same but this one was smaller,

about ten feet square. Not exactly ten feet, not exactly

three meters, not exactly any measurement Barton was

familiar with—and Barton knew he was capable of esti-

mating dimensions quite closely. The gray surfaces, the

low ceiling, the temperature, the light with no sources or

shadows, the floor and walls you could piss through but

not escape through—these were all the same. But the

feel of the place was that of a solid planet, not a space-

ship. There was nothing more, just Barton, alone in his

room. This, he realized, is how to go crazy.

Barton was of no mind to go crazy. He felt be might

be a little bit crazy already, but he didn't intend to let it

go any further than he could help. He still knew only a

little of what be was up against; as a matter of survival

he set out to leam more. The effort kept his mind occu-

pied, and he figured that was all to the good.

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Over an unmeasured period of time be discovered sev-

eral things. His solid wastes, infrequent on his present

diet, also went through the floor without trace, but not in-

stantaneously; they sank gradually, leaving no residue.

The room reserved one comer of itself for these functions;

it told Barton so with electrical shocks.

His food and water, neither separate nor appetizing,

rose through another area of the floor in the same way,

the floor forming itself into a sort of cup or bowl to hold

the liquid mush. The intervals between meals were ir-

regular and unpredictable. When Barton got angry at an

especially long delay and pissed in the bowl when it ap-

peared, the room left the mess with him for several hours

before removing it and providing his next feeding. He

didn't foul his food again. Frustrated out of his mind, Bar-

ton was, but not of a mood to let himself be stupid.

There wasn't much that he could leam from bis lim-

ited environment, but he tried. With the constant illumina-

tion and irregular feeding schedule, there was no way to

tell time. Barton first tried a makeshift count of bis own

pulse, but aside from the variation with his emotions, he

invariably lost track of the thousands. He tried to keep a

record of his own waking periods, and had no better luck.

The walls and floors would not retain marks. When he

tried to lay out hairs or nail bitings on the floor or glue

them to the walls with spittle, they simply vanished, usu-

ally while he was asleep, though once be saw an attempted

marker absorbed into a wall. He shouted and struck at it

at the last, which did DO good either.

Barton knew he was a little off his head when he be-

gan trying to make permanent marks on his own body to

keep the one count that meant anything to him: the num-

ber of his waking periods. He tried gouging his skin with

his fingernails but found his healing rate was accelerated;

he could not produce scars. He tried biting himself and

was dissuaded by a series of shocks from the floor. The

room allowed him to pluck marker stripes through bis

body hair, but the process was tedious and the result im-

permanent. He abandoned the effort and gave himself up

to the sulks.

Once in a blank reverie he found himself pulling at his

whiskers, and suddenly realized he had had a rough time

measurement at hand all along. He pulled one hair from

his sprouting beard; the length of it told him he had been

caged for about four months, give or take a couple of

weeks. His next period of sleep was more relaxed than

any since this whole thing had started. Since Before.

Before! Barton hadn't thought of Before, more than

fleetingly, since he had wondered what he was doing in

the drunk tank. How could he? There was nothing but

Here, and Here was so terrible and so frustrating that he

couldn't put his attention fully on anything else. And for

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a time, he hadn't been able to remember very much, any-

way.

He woke thinking of Before, though, and wondering

about it. His emerging memories were still incomplete.

The condition didn't bother him because he didn't recall-

any better one, except vaguely.

He knew that he had been born in 1950 and was pretty

sure he'd been thirty-two at his last birthday. He was an

only child, perhaps a little too smart for his own good in

the childhood jungle of school, he recalled. Stubborn,

somewhat of a loner in his teens. Buf not much of a rebel

at home, or in two years of liberal-arts studies at the local

university.

Then the war in Vietnam. He'd panicked and shot a

scrawny kid who didn't have a grenade after all, just a

small clay jar of oa. Later he'd shot one of bis own squad-

mates who had begun to spray a village with submachine

fire; no one could prove it on him for sure, so be didn't

get court-martialed. Barton had never told anyone about

these things; he'd just lived with them.

He hadn't tried hard drugs, just dew and hash some-

times, so when his hitch was finished he had no trouble

getting home and out of the service. But he couldn^t get

along with his parents anymore. They kept trying to put

him back in the little-boy bag and it didnt fit. He knew

they loved him but he couldn't take the way they showed

Barton went back to college on the G.I. Bill- He wasn't

doing well with people, he felt, so he undertook the study

of things; he became a physics major. He would have

preferred paleontology—he enjoyed fossil-hunting—but

there wasn't any money in it and he'd been broke long

enough. He was good enough at his studies to graduate

with honors. He had about eight to ten dates per school

year but got laid once a month by a friendly-mannered

professional. As a matter of fact he liked the part-time

whore, personally, better than he liked the coeds he dated.

Barton felt that he knew honesty when he met it. On the

dating scene he hadn't found enough to notice.

After graduation. Barton took a Master's degree and

then a job with a company that gave him time to work on

his Ph.D. on the side. It seemed to be a good deal, and for

the most part, it was. Except for the red tape, which

started strong and kept growing.

Just before leaving school. Barton had met a girl who

frankly admitted she liked getting laid, and proved it. Her

name was Ada Rongen; she was nearly Barton's height,

and slim. She had green eyes, long red hair and a crooked

nose from having played shinny at the age of ten. Barton

proposed on their third date; they were married in time to

avoid a fourth one.

For the most part, over the next few years Barton liked

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his job and his studies and his marriage. He enjoyed his

hobby, oil painting. When the package came apart on him,

it did so all at once.

The red tape on Barton's job had piled up until it took

nearly half of what should have been productive time. He

got-clobbered in his Ph.D. Orals by a professor whose

main gripe seemed to be that Barton had never taken the

profs own pet course. And he found that .Ada's liking for

getting laid was not exclusively in his favor.

The day he came home from the Orals fiasco she told

him she was pregnant. Then she said, "I think you should

know; the child is probably not yours."

Barton didn't ask who, how or why. He moved out,

From the Job, from the school and from Ada. First he

told her to go ahead with a divorce; he'd give her any

grounds she needed. "... and don't say anything. I've

never hit a woman in my life and I don't want to spoil my

record." She nodded, silenced by the look of the man who

had always been gentle to her.

He moved into a walk-up room and concentrated on

his painting. A little of his work began to sell, but mostly

he lived on the refund from the company's retirement

plan. He picked up, on a part-tune basis, with the young

salesgirl at the gallery that handled his paintings. And

once divorced, he found that without bitterness he

could share Ada's eclectic enjoyment of casual sex. They

became fairly good friends, in bed and out.

A year or two had gone by like this, a comfortable

vegetative time. Painting, drinking with Ada and turning

on with Leonie the salesgirl, being lover to each of them

in a friendly noncompetitive way. By the time his retire-

ment money ran out he could almost but not quite make

a living from the painting. He made up the difference

with a part-time scut job at the gallery; Barton's tastes,

when he so chose, could be relatively inexpensive. He was

drifting and he knew it; what better way to spend the

dregs of his youth?

And then somehow, at no specific point he could recall,

Barton had been torn away from that placid half-

remembered existence. To wake up in a gray, seamless

cage.

Thinking back, then. Barton lay supine on the gray

floor and for the first time in his new existence mastur-

bated slowly and luxuriously, building his urge almost to

the deathwish-point of convulsions before he gave himself

release. Then, relaxed, he wondered why in bell he had

taken so long to think of such an. obvious answer to his

tensions. The relaxation carried through all that waking

period and into sleep.

For the first time Here, Barton woke almost happy,

. smiling in reminiscence and anticipation. He ate in no

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great hurry, voided, thought vaguely and with only faint

regret on what he could remember of Before. Then he lay

down, arranged himself comfortably and thought of plea-

sure.

Nothing worked. No thoughts, no touch produced the

slightest response. There was no doubt in Barton's mind

what had happened. The room had noticed that he had

discovered a source of pleasure, and turned it off.

That was the first time Barton tried to find a way to

kill himself.

He couldn't; the room wouldn't let him. When he tried

to do any real damage such as biting at an artery, the

room jarred him out of it with electrical shock or radical

variations of the gravity, temperature or air pressure, until

be gave up and lay cursing, or sometimes crying.

The room had taken a long time to notice that Barton

needed a bath or its equivalent. He was getting pretty

stinking; his skin was spotted with inflamed areas and

mild infections. Then suddenly he began to receive treat-

ments he really didn't appreciate too much. Barton de-

cided the method was probably ultrasonics.

At any rate, the outer layer of his skin flaked off in

patches, and so did much of his hair, quite roughly and

unevenly. He didn't have a mirror, but by the feel of him-

self he knew he looked like bloody hell. Furthermore, his

beard "calendar" was shot down.

So when Barton one "morning" woke to find one wall

no longer gray but looking like a window, with people or

something else looking in at Urn, he was more angry than

curious. At first he paid little attention to the appearance

of those outside, although they certainly didn't look es-

pecially human. But at that point he didn't give a damn

whether school kept or not; he was more concerned with

what these beings had done to his own looks and functions

than with what they might happen to look like. What he

wanted was a little action.

He did all the standard things: he shouted, made faces,

waved his arms and beat on the window. The people (or

something) showed no reaction, except now and then to

turn to one another and exchange comments. Or appar-

ently so: he couldn't be sure; there was no sound.

When his mainspring ran down. Barton realized that be

had better pay attention. Here was a chance for knowl-

edge; it might not last.

What he saw was a group of robed cowled figures,

vaguely human-shaped and apparently human-sized. Of

course, he thought, this could be closed-circuit TV and

not a window at all; in that case the apparent size wouldn't

mean much. But Limila had said the Demu were about

the size of humans.

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F. M. Busby - The Demu trilogy

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