"Because I wanted to get some estimate of how this trial is going to come out."
"Maybe this song thing will work. He's very committed."
"Don't kid yourself. You haven't got a prayer."
Thrillkiller looked at his shoes. "I know."
"Public opinion polls are running seventy-thirty in favor of continued time exploitation, 'with proper controls.' Your grassroots campaign is pure astroturf. That would be all right if it were high quality astroturf, or if there were a lot of it. Let him making some ideological rant before LEX, and the likelihood of an acquittal is slim."
"Maybe this statement he makes will show people how overwhelmed he is. He's a pretty pathetic character."
"Pathetic people are not attractive."
"Well, a conviction isn't necessarily bad," Lance said. "If you want more press, the appeals could go on for years."
"Appeals? On what grounds? This thing is so open-and-shut it'll be forgotten in a week. Plus, I happen to know that Saltimbanque is planning to drop a bombshell at the trial that will blow Simon back to the penitentiary so fast all that will be left is his shadow on the courtroom wall. I'm going to lose a lot of cash on this first round. For the next trial, Jephthah, I want to suggest a new approach."
"What do you have in mind?"
"I don't think rational arguments are the way to do this. Who cares about the principle of self-determination? You must generate charisma. Play up the rebel leader, the dark, dangerous man of action."
"And Simon?"
"There’s something more to him than pathos, but you heard him. He has a message from God? If you talk to God, you are praying; if God talks to you, you have schizophrenia. I don't think this is going to help his PR problem."
"So what happens?"
"Cut your losses. He goes up, he goes down, he goes away. We move on.” She showed Thrillkiller to the door. “I trust you not to tell Simon any of this."
After he left, Rosethrush buzzed Gracie. "Gracie, give any calls in the next hour to my simulant. I'm going to be reviewing this month's VR releases for the ratings board." She rang off, fitted the headband on again and slid into the bedroom of a luxury suite at the old Plaza Hotel. She felt the tug of a cross-gendered virtuality experience; on the wall above the bed, in flaming letters, the title appeared:
THE ELIZABETH TAYLOR WEDDING NIGHTS.
She did not see how this could possibly be socially justifiable. But it was her duty to see it through.
EIGHT: REMEMBER
THE NIGHT
On the way out to Connecticut Gen sampled three different mood drugs from the courtesy bar of the limousine Owen had sent for her. How would Emma Zume greet the man she was falling in love with? Should she be bright and curious? Darkly thoughtful? Gen settled on calm. Emma Zume, confident in her propriety, would be properly calm.
Evening was approaching when she drew up before the veterinary labs at the College of Advanced Thought. Owen stood in the entrance, wearing a cashmere jacket, slacks, an open collared shirt. His mood boots gleamed a passionate red. He hurried forward to meet her, opened the limo door. "I'm so glad you could come."
"Is something wrong with Wilma?" she asked, letting him help her out.
"No, no. She's taken very well to the new surroundings. No signs of tampering with her since the move. She likes to wallow in the lake. It's no problem. The students like her: she's the new mascot. And the scientists on the faculty are ecstatic."
"So why did you ask me here?"
Owen hesitated. "I thought you might be able to guess." He took her back to a paddock off the rear of the building. Wilma looked up from a basin of oats and snorted when she saw Owen. Owen stroked her neck. "Let's go for a walk," he said to Gen.
Owen led Wilma out, and they headed down toward the lake at the center of the campus. A number of students watched them. In the glow of the westering sun, Gen could see the inroads Wilma had already made in the pines. Wilma's head bobbed forward and back on her reaching neck as she trotted along, unearthly, majestic, deeply weird. The sunset painted her yellow sides gold. Her eyes gleamed with a hysterical light, and she lashed her tail languidly as they followed her down to the lakeside. Gen was sincerely glad that the tampering with the dinosaur had stopped.
Owen, shy as a young boy, slipped his hand into Gen's. "A beautiful evening," Emma said. "Look, there's Venus."
"You're a stargazer?"
The trick to being a convincing Emma Zume was to give Emma a little of Genevieve Faison. "I love to look at the stars. It puts everything in perspective. The only legitimate justification I can see for your Cretaceous research station is the early astronomical research."
"I'm so glad to hear that. It makes me think you may not completely disapprove of me." He faced her. "Emma, there's something I need to speak with you about."
She squeezed his hand. "Yes, Owen?"
"You've got me thinking about right and wrong, Emma. You know, most people don't pay any more attention to their system of morality than to their shoes."
"I suppose that's why they're so moral."
"No, they pay
less
attention to morality than their shoes."
"Ah--but not you, Owen."
"Uh--right. You see, Emma, you've called my attention to my own behavior. I don't blame you for having the wrong impression of me at the beginning. So I'm going to show you what I'm made of. I've contacted the defense at the Zealot trial, and persuaded them to challenge the authenticity of the pix of the hostage siege. In response, the prosecution has called me in to testify. I want you to watch. On the witness stand I'll demonstrate what I stand for."
"But Owen, wouldn't you rather stay out of the public eye?"
"To prove myself to you I'd risk anything. Listen, Emma. Though some might call it unseemly, even rash when we've known each other such a short time, I have felt an instinctive understanding between us from the first moment I saw you."
"On the lawn, where you were disguised as someone else?"
"Right after that. I'm a scientist, Emma, and I know about evolution. In their times, dinosaurs like Wilma--" Wilma, hearing her name, bumped her head against Owen's shoulder, almost sending him sprawling. Gen caught him.
"Are you all right?"
Owen pushed Wilma's head away. He showed only a trace of annoyance. "Yes. What I mean to say is . . . creatures like the
Apatosaurus megacephalos
were, during their times, the highest expression of the biological tropism toward complexity. Just as we are today. We act out these scientific truths whether we are aware of them or not . . . I'm talking about love, Emma. Love is evolutionarily determined. A kinship exists between us that may be young and undeveloped, like little Wilma, but like Wilma--" the dinosaur swayed toward him again, and Owen ducked, "--it has in it the programming to become very large."
"And strong."
"Yes--that's right! Stronger than custom, or family--"
"--or thought. Some things are wired into our natures, and individuals can't go against them."
"Yes! That's exactly what I was trying to say! That's miraculous! How did you know?"
She turned her back to him and concentrated on Wilma, poking her head into the shallows as if to root around for lily pads. "I can read many of your thoughts, Owen."
"Then you must know what I want to ask you. Though I'm hardly worthy of the least attention--"
"Oh, I can see your sterling qualities, underneath that rough exterior."
"No, Emma! I'm not worth it."
"But you are, Owen. What you've just said about your sense of right and wrong proves it, beyond doubt. You deserve me. No one could deserve me more."
Wilma stopped, lifted her head as if to check that they were still there.
From behind, Owen put his hands on her shoulders. "That's why I love you," he said. "You're so much better than I, so pure, so dedicated."
"I know."
"You're so good that I'm prepared to face mother and demand we be permitted to marry immediately. Despite our difference in class."
She stood on her toes, her back still to him. "How big of you, Owen. How you've grown--like Wilma." She pointed at the dinosaur. "You're so large. You're such a
large
man."
"Not really."
"You
are
."
"I'm not so large, but--"
"Well, you would know."
Owen turned her to face him. "Emma, would you--could you--might you give me your hand in marriage? A marriage, not just of bodies, but of minds--of souls!" His face was lit with nobility, as if he were posing for a statue of some pilgrim father signing the Mayflower Compact.
"This is so sudden!" she breathed. "But of course, Owen. Yes."
"Darling!"
He drew her toward him, bending to kiss her. She let him, briefly, then pulled away and lowered her chin to her shoulder, shy as a buttercup. "Please, Owen. These people!"
"Emma, dearest. You make me blush."
"There is a good deal to be said for blushing, if one can do it at the proper moment," she said. She retreated from him a few steps, and when he followed, he tripped over Wilma's tail and fell on his face.
#
Riding back to New York Gen flipped through the pix in the back of the limo. Aron Bliss's blabshow was running another report on the zealot trial. After the new video by Anachros, Bliss did an interview with Simon.
The video was adequate, a retro blues with a simple lyric. Anachros had a new drummer, a dark haired man Gen did not recognize. The interview was curious. Simon sat quietly. In answer to the breathless vidiot's questions, he told about the planning of the assault on the hotel as if he were not ashamed of it. He did not seem out of his depth. He did not talk about exploitation. He did not stress his confusion and helplessness. At first Gen thought, what a bad idea, he's going to alienate the watchers, or bore them. What an abject political towelhead, a born loser.
But as the interview went on, Simon's directness began to grow on her. It was so against the grain of the typical flash-edited chat that it was interesting. If any viewers managed to stay tuned past their normal attention spans, this approach actually might make inroads.
It was late night when she got back to August's Greenwich Village apartment. She found her father sitting in his reading chair, a glass of scotch in his hand, an opened book on his lap. "How did it go?"
"He asked me to marry him."
He set down the scotch. "You're not going to do it, are you?"
This was harder than she thought it would be. It was so different from the last time she thought Owen wanted to marry her, back in Jerusalem. She sat down on the sofa. "Yes, I am."
August shook his head slowly. "Remember, you're not just marrying him, you're getting the whole family."
Genevieve smiled. "Watching Owen Vannice relate to his family is like watching a man pinned helplessly beneath a huge stone. But that's just it, dad: he's
not
helpless. He's
chosen
helplessness."
"He may be helpless, but don't underestimate his mother. Rosethrush Vannice has teeth." August drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, watching her. Through the opened window a breeze carried the sound of street music. "This revenge is a powerful emotion, Genevieve. You can't tell when it might be time to beat a retreat."
"I'll pass on your advice to the first person I meet who can use it."
"Don't get angry," August said. "I'm worried about you. If you were marrying Vannice to scam him, I'd approve. If you genuinely loved him, I'd say you were crazy but I'd approve. But this seems seriously conflicted. You love him, you hate him."
"I hate what he represents. His blindness, his hypocrisy. He ought to be better than he is."
"So? We're not social workers, we're con artists. A mark may learn a lesson from running into us, but that's not why we con them."
"He doesn't need to be conned. He cons himself." She told August about Owen's plan to testify at the Zealot trial. "It's a perfect example of what's twisted about him. He talks to the defense, then testifies for the prosecution. He's not above being tricky, but he tells himself he's working within the system--when with all his money and connections he could simply
buy
Simon's freedom! To be an honest man he'd have to learn how dishonest he is. Break a law on purpose, and make no excuses. If he doesn't watch out, he'll become like his father, a pillar of society who makes money selling pornography as historical material."
"Again, where do you fit into this? Owen Vannice isn't unique. I never came across anyone in whom the moral sense was dominant who was not heartless, cruel, vindictive, log-stupid and entirely lacking in the smallest sense of humanity."
"It's the same thing with Wilma. He violates the past, but claims to be against exploitation. He thinks if he feels sorry about his violations that somehow that makes them all right. As if sympathy alone ever accomplished anything!"
The doorbell rang. August got up and checked the security camera. "It's a delivery girl. From a florist."
"Send her up."
August buzzed the girl up and Gen met her at the apartment door. She wore a yellow uniform halter and shorts, powered shoes. Buck teethed and freckled, she had probably been indentured to the job from an employment opportunity center. The transparent box contained a dozen long-stemmed roses, with blooms as big as saucers. The cost of the flowers alone would have kept the delivery girl for a month. "How lovely," Gen said. She slipped the girl a twenty dollar piece. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
Gen closed the apartment door, examined the card that came with the flowers. A tiny image of Owen spoke to her. "Emma. One rose for every sleepless hour I'll have thinking of you."
Gen closed the card. "I'm going to do this, August. I'm going to give the Vannice clan a thrashing they'll never forget."
August sighed. "I expect the audience for that will be huge. It just proves what they say: give the public what they want to see and they'll come out for it."
NINE: WITNESS
FOR THE PROSECUTION
Ever since he had heard Owen describe to Emma Zume his planned testimony, Bill had been advising Owen against it. =This is exactly the kind of situation your parents bought me for. You'll put yourself in the way of public ridicule, if not legal hazard, for no good reason.=
"Showing Emma what I stand for isn't a good reason?"
=Trust God, not shopping; dreaming men, funny women.=
The physical courtroom, crammed into the Stamford Vannicom studios, was not large. At the front stood LEX's polished mahogany bench. Before the bench was the performance space, with its matte black floor and the dramatic stage lighting. Next came the tables of the defense and the plaintiff, and behind a rail, an arc of a dozen seats for witnesses and those spectators who were physically present. But the courtroom was wired for VR, and countless subscribers jacking in would be there watching.
Not only would they watch, but each participant's sensorium was backwired to the court. Their instantaneous judgments about the case were crunched by a computer. Home viewers could pull down a monitor that would display at any moment the state of public opinion: on the defendant's guilt or innocence, LEX's rulings, the lawyers' arguments, the lawyers' clothes, the lawyers' cosmetic surgery, whether it would be fun to sleep with the defendant, did the defendant look like a person who preferred cats or dogs, and how, if the defendant should be found guilty of a capital offense, the execution should be carried out. The same feedback was also wired into LEX's judgment program. A modern arbitration like Simon's trial became a struggle, not just to convince LEX, but to affect that invisible audience. Everything leading up to the trial was designed to prepare that audience to be sympathetic to one or the other side.
In the courtroom, the only indicator of that feedback was the large display on the front of LEX's bench. Not visible to the witnesses testifying, a simple needle ran along a graduated scale from the green of "Acquit" to the red of "Convict." The lawyers judged from this how the minute-by-minute PR surge was running. A good advocate was a person who could wing it, adjusting his strategy from moment to moment in keeping with the VR jury's reaction, without losing track of the framework of law within which LEX would rule.
At the Saltimbanque table were Jerry Canady heading the plaintiff's team, his two regular assistants, Hiroko Sato and Wanda Skolnik (who had already become a notorious figure on the worldwide net because of her demure seriousness and great legs). Plus a dark man Owen did not recognize. "Who is that?" he whispered.
=Delbert Lamont,= Bill said. =PR. He's monitoring responses and advising Canady on his closing argument. When you cross them he's going to have Canady use you for wallpaper.=
In comparison to the crowded prosecution table, at the defense table sat Simon and Diane Ontiveros. Simon wore a woolen tunic and a leather belt, a headband, sandals. "The embattled little guy ," Owen muttered.
=The lone fanatic. The guaranteed loser, no matter what you do.=
"Hear ye, hear ye, the court of the honorable LEX is now in session. All rise."
The in-court spectators rose, and Owen got up with them.
The door behind the bench opened and LEX entered. Today he had chosen to be a huge black raven with a hooked yellow beak and beady eyes. A sharp crest of midnight feathers shot up from his narrow head. He wore striped trousers, a waistcoat, a stand up collar with jet cravat, black cutaway, and brilliant white gloves. Only the fact that Owen knew it was an illusion kept him from thinking the creature was really there.
LEX settled down behind the desk. "Be seated," it said in a skirling voice that stood the hairs on the back of Owen's neck. "In our last episode, the defense challenged the authenticity of the Herod's Palace security pix. Mr. Canady, are you prepared to respond?"
"Yes, LEX. We call Dr. Owen Vannice to the stand."
Owen moved to the witness stand. The lights were bright enough that he could not see past the lawyer's tables: there might have been an army of watchers. He looked over at Simon. If Ontiveros had told him of Owen's plan, he showed no signs of either hope or resignation.
"Dr. Vannice," Canady began, "thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to be here. Thanks to the pix in question we've all witnessed your heroic action in the resolution of the Jerusalem hostage crisis, for which we must commend you."
"Thank you."
"In regard to those pix, in your view, are they an accurate representation of what occurred in the Herod's Palace Hotel?"
"As far as it goes, yes."
"I want you to identify for us the man who threatened to kill you at the end of that confrontation."
"Objection, LEX," Ontiveros said. "We don't know the defendant's intentions."
"Sustained. Try again, Jerry."
Canady was undeterred. "Is the man who pointed his weapon at you here in this courtroom?"
"Yes he is. But--"
"Would you point him out for us?"
Owen pointed to Simon. "There he is. But I want to make clear that he didn't shoot, although--"
Canady looked vexed. "He was standing there, with an rifle."
"Yes"
"And he pointed it at you."
"Yes, that's so. But--"
"So the tranquilizing gas kept him from firing."
"Objection, your honor. Leading."
"Sustained," said LEX.
Canady's eyes flicked over the feedback indicator. "Let me rephrase that, Dr. Vannice. You were there. As the pix seem to show, were you passing out from the tranquilizing gas?"
"Yes."
"Were the other hostages likewise affected?"
"Yes."
"Is it likely that anyone not wearing a gas mask would be equally affected by the gas?"
"I suppose so. But--"
"That's all, your honor."
Owen looked at Simon, who was watching the indicator on the front of LEX's desk. He doubted anything he'd said so far had done much to nudge it toward "acquit."
=Nice job, Boss. Now let it go.=
Dianne Ontiveros got up for the cross examination. "Dr. Vannice, when you were injured during the assault, did the defendant do anything to hurt you?
"No. In fact, he prevented the guard from hurting me further."
"You yourself have experience with time travel to distant moment universes."
"Yes, I do."
"You might even be said to be an expert on the effects of time travel. As a scientist, Dr. Vannice, would you give us your opinion of the effects of time travel on the present and past? What has the result been since the first cat was sent back to the 2022 moment universe by Patel in 2035?"
"Objection, your honor!" Canady said. "Immaterial."
"I'm going to allow it," LEX chirped. "Ratings could use a boost."
It was the opening Owen had hoped for. Bill whispered, =I don't suppose at this point you want to listen to reason.=
"Time travel's had many deleterious effects," Owen said.
=I didn't think so. I'm outa here, boss.=
"In your opinion, what have these effects been?" Ontiveros asked.
Now he would show Emma who he really was. "We're all aware of them. For instance, you go back into a two-second old moment universe and you can pull an essential duplicate of a real person into our world. These historical duplicates have been used for fraud."
"Isn't that illegal?"
"It hasn't stopped people from doing it. But that's the least of time travel's deleterious effects. Look at the effect on the economy! How many plastic farms have gone out of business since we've started pumping petrochemicals out of the past? Plus, the psychic costs have been immeasurable! We're living by the past so much we've closed off our own future. Try to become a writer or entertainer or athlete on your own today, when you have to compete with the best of all history."
=You're in free fall, now.=
Owen ignored Bill. He was enjoying this, and Bill's attempts to derail him only made it more sweet. He was acting on principle, in defiance of what his parents wanted. He felt himself growing eloquent. "What about the destruction of past peoples? The antibiotic-resistant microbes of the 21st century have wreaked havoc in earlier eras. Influenza killed millions in the fourteenth century alone, exceeding deaths caused by the Black Plague. How do we know the retrovirus explosion in the late twentieth wasn't a result of contamination by time travelers?"
=Without a net.=
"By entering the past we are creating whole new universes! Whole other earths, other human races, which we create and abandon. We steal their significant historical figures and leave them to struggle on, and never even know how or whether they cope."
=Wake me when you hit.=
"Then there are the theoretical questions. What about bleed-over? You can't go on burning adjacent moment universes without eventually having an effect on the fabric of time itself. You create a focused mass of altered time streams and you're going to affect our own. A black hole of warped history, sucking us down into it."
=That noise you hear is the sound of fingernails scraping the bottom of the barrel.=
Ontiveros asked, "What about those who say that there have been no measurable effects?"
"How would we know?" Once the past has been changed, the present goes along and we are none the wiser."
"Supposing all this to be true, Dr. Vannice, does it in any way justify Simon's actions?" Ontiveros asked.
"I'm not saying that. All I'm saying is that some much larger crimes have to be ignored before we presume to judge those men who took over the basement of Herod's Palace."
"Thank you, Dr. Vannice, for your frank and honest appraisal." Ontiveros swept her arm outward in a magnanimous gesture as she spun to face the gallery. "I'm sure it must have been difficult for you to speak the truth when your interests lie so strongly on the other side."
She returned to the defense table. Owen started to rise.
Jerry Canady held up his hand. "Just a minute, Dr. Vannice."
The prosecution lawyers conferred, grim faced. Delbert Lamont's head was an inch from Canady's, whispering in his ear while Canady stared impassively at Owen. The witness stand felt suddenly uncomfortable.
"Your honor, we'd like the opportunity to re-direct," Canady said.
"Go ahead."
=Nice knowing you, Owen.=
Canady stood and came forward, a tight smile on his face. Owen tried not to feel nervous. "Dr. Vannice, are you an expert on time travel case law?"
"I'm not."
"So you didn't know that it's illegal to take doubles of living citizens, or the recently deceased, from Moment Universes?"
"It may be illegal, but people still do it."
"Are you an expert on the economics of time travel?"
"Not exactly. But I've done a lot--"
"In fact, it costs a lot of money to go back two seconds. So much so that the number of documented cases of illegal doubles being taken is--twelve. Should we close down a multi-billion dollar industry, one that employs hundreds of thousands of people and has beneficial effects throughout our economy, for the twelve times people have used this technology against the law?"
"Those crimes are just the tip of the iceberg."
"I didn't know you were an expert in icebergs, either. Now, you talked about 'bleed-over.' Tell us, Dr. Vannice, is your doctorate in temporal physics?"
"Uh--no."
"You are a paleontologist, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"At present, are you affiliated with any accredited college or university?"
"No. I was at MIT, but--"
"So, in fact, you don't have any scientific basis for lecturing us about the concept of bleed-over, do you?"
Owen tried to keep calm. "Well, okay. It's generally felt that those moment universes are completely separate from our own past."
"Thank you. You used the term 'fabric of time.' Is there any scientific evidence that time is a fabric?"
"Uh--not exactly."
"Do you know where that term comes from?"
"It's in common use."
"'Fabric of time' is a metaphor that was popular in the science fiction of the twentieth century. In fact, according to contemporary physics, time is a quantum gas. Do you know what a quantum gas is?"
"Not precisely."
"Not precisely." Canady turned to the invisible audience. "We're talking about reality, not metaphysical concepts like 'bleed-over' or archaic fantasies like the 'fabric of time.'"
"Some reputable scientists speculate--"
"Isn't it true that we have visited moment universes adjacent to ours to the next second," Canady said, "and that when we do so we find no perceptible difference until we begin to make an effect on it ourselves? That according to every study ever undertaken, our present, the True Moment, has not been affected in any way by changes made to past moment universes?"
"As I said before, how would we know?"
"How would
you
, at any rate. You mentioned those petrochemicals taken from the past. How many people have been able to afford artificial hearts because of those cheap petrochemicals?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Those plastic farms were only started when we ran out of oil. Now that we have another source, we don't need them. As the son of wealth, and a cosseted academic, I guess we can't expect you to be familiar with the world of commerce, but that's the way the marketplace works. Yet you sit before us wearing a pair of mood boots made from oil piped from past versions of fields that were exhausted when you were a child."
"Objection, LEX!" Ontiveros said. "Mr. Canady is making a speech, not examining the witness."
LEX's crestfeathers waggled in excitement. "Sure. But it's a petty good speech. Go for it!"
Owen tried to regain the initiative. "You're talking about science, or economics," he protested. "But the moral issue has not been settled."
"Precisely. Settling it is one outcome we hope this trial will have." Canady moved away from the stand, toward the viewing audience. "We're not saying time use has had no effect. It's had an enormous effect: a positive one. Our lives have been immensely enriched by the things we've brought from the past. Our children go into the park and feed the passenger pigeons, and come home to play with Rin Tin Tin--the very same loyal, faithful, intelligent dog that made all those movies in the twentieth century."