"In this is a world where all things can be measured, I wonder that no one has thought to measure the rates of moral evasion among the prosperous who direct the actions of the Saltimbanque corporation.
"I have come to understand that, among you, a corporation is the same as a person. This is something that those of my time find it hard to fathom. But if a corporation is a person, Mr. Lincoln asked you to appreciate the good that this person did in saving his life.
"Let us suppose that the Saltimbanque corporation
is
a person. Imagine this person as a king, King Saltimbanque. King Saltimbanque has changed the lives of everyone living in that land Simon, and I, come from.
"Must we submit to the power of this alien king? A king who treats us as if we were images on a screen, to be saved or discarded as it pleases him? A king whose only concern is profit? Who gives those profits to those who do not need, and takes them from the sweat of those who work and die? A king who harvests all the fields, leaving not a single straw for the widow deprived of her husband by the this king's own action, for the orphan deprived of his father by the king's own soldiers?
"I told you earlier that Simon has a son, a son he has not seen in a year, a son now separated from him by a gulf of two thousand years. Simon's son listens to the music brought back from the future to Jerusalem. He loves your music. From it he makes his own. For Samuel, music is free. It doesn't come from the corporation that records the music. It comes from that voice of god inside.
"On the way here I heard a song on the radio. If you listen you will hear it too, a song by Ben Simeon. Who is 'Ben Simeon'? Ben Simeon is not a real person. He is Simon's son Samuel. The Saltimbanque corporation has earned millions of dollars from that song. Samuel has not received a penny for it. He doesn't expect it. To him the music is free. But Samuel's father is on trial for his life.
"A man stole the bread from his neighbor's table. Another man destroyed the neighbor's business, and the neighbor had no bread for his table. Which man is guilty?
"Simon is he who hears, hearkens, obeys, and understands. Does the King Saltimbanque hear, hearken, obey, or understand? Can the king hear the still, small, quiet, interior, mysterious, eternal, magnificent, powerful voice of god? Can you?"
"Over the sound of Mr. Lincoln's dying words, it may yet be hard. If you can quiet the lies of the king, even at this late moment, then perhaps you can hear that voice. Perhaps you can repeat what it says back to the king, multiplied a thousandfold, a hundred thousandfold, a million times by the power of your individual voices. Let him hear the voice of justice, thundering through the world, across time itself, spoken in the words of your individual souls. The true kingdom, the kingdom of God, is inside you. It can come into the world as you speak. It cannot come into being any other way."
TEN: ONE
HOUR WITH YOU
In his dream Owen searched the greenhouse for Wilma but could not find her. Something was wrong: she was growing smaller instead of larger. Now she was lost under some leaf. Instead of the smell of decay, the air was heavy with perfume. He pushed aside the fronds of a fern, and there was Emma, wearing her wedding gown.
"Don't worry about her," Emma said. Her right shoe was off, and she was unbuttoning her left. Her skirt was pulled halfway up her calf, and she wore fine white stockings. "Help me with this." She turned around and fumbled with the buttons up the back of her dress. Looking over her shoulder at him, she smiled. The hair curling over her ear made a question mark. Her eyelashes were long and dark . . .
Then they were in his classroom at MIT, and she was naked, lying across the table at the front of the room. Her hips rounded up into a tight, taut belly whose curve was an invitation to a caress. Her thighs were smooth as satin. The line of her collar bone fine as a child's wish, the swell of her breasts . . .
A freight train crashed into a bridge abutment in his mind, accompanied by a voice like the gates of hell closing. =Wake up, boss.=
Owen’s eyes snapped open, the dream blown into rags. "You didn't have to be quite so decisive."
=You said it was important you wake by eight.=
Owen staggered out of bed. His back and shoulders were sore, and he was as exhausted as if he had been up all night, but he had done nothing strenuous for weeks and the clock testified to a good nine hours sleep. Bleary eyed, he found his way to the shower.
Twenty steamy minutes later he felt more like himself. As he dressed he looked over his wall screen, running the paper from Emil Wheeler, the paleontology-mad state trooper. Owen did not know when he was going to get time to read over the latest text. The thing was a salad of unfounded speculation and left handed insights. He had been forced to agree to collaborate. But the man would not take yes for an answer, and had been pestering Owen with new drafts daily.
Still, he had not taken offense at Owen's knocking him out on the road. When Owen explained he had been decked by a martial arts AI, Wheeler had even taken it as a point of distinction. The rich, it seemed
were
different.
Owen dressed casually and hurried down to the kitchen to grab something to eat. Thanks to the wedding preparations, he hadn’t been able to get over to see Wilma in person for three days, and had to be content with remote sensing. His mother had made the wedding preparations an absolute madhouse. The ceremony would take place at one o'clock, on the lawn below the big house, with the reception in a pavilion near the pool. An army of caterers had descended on Thornberry, followed closely by an army of relatives. It was a toss-up as to which was more disruptive.
The staff bustled around the kitchen in a frenzy of preparation. The friction between the caterers and the regulars was barely concealed, and the only stable person there seemed to be Jeeves, who was decorating the sixteen layer cake with an abstract network of fluorescent frosting. Owen breezed past and stuck his head into the big refrigerator. The regular staff tended to like Owen because he made no demands and occasionally spoke to them as if they might possible know what they were doing. But Owen never felt comfortable around servants; there was always the chasm of several billion dollars between them.
At least a third of the staff were wearing spex as they hustled around the kitchen. They were undoubtedly glued to the coverage of the Simon trial. LEX was expected to render his verdict some time that morning, and speculation was rife as to what he might rule. The appearance by Yeshu was considered by some to be a coup that might get Simon an acquittal.
Owen found some milk and a bowl of cereal, some coffee, and retreated to the verandah. There he ran into his Uncle Suede. Suede was also wearing spex, and looked up at Owen with a dazed expression on his face.
"What ho, the groom!" he said, taking off the glasses.
"Keep quiet, Uncle. The walls have ears."
Suede Vannice was actually Owen's Great Uncle. He was at least one hundred years old, but a fortune in rejuvenation treatments had kept him looking no more than forty, and he could whip the shorts off Owen in a five-set tennis match. It would be surprising if he couldn't, since he had spent his entire life doing little more than playing various games, marrying various women, and avoiding any real work. Despite this he was a charming man, impossible to dislike. Blonde, athletic, with a brilliant smile and an open manner, his wealth rested easily on him. He was also dumb as processed cheese.
Suede winked a bright blue eye. "Trying to dodge the pixmen, Owen?"
"As much as possible," Owen said.
"I don't think they're dodgeable. Your nuptials remind me a little of the wedding of King Charles to his first wife, eighty years ago. They had old-style video of everything except the examination to prove the bride was a virgin. Of course, pix was in its infancy then." Uncle Suede touched the spex lying on the table. On their twin screens Owen made out the tiny face of Aron Bliss, one of Rosethrush's posthuman media flacks. Over Bliss's face scrolled the tiny words of today's pretrial promo: "Does Jesus Save?"
"Just look at this Simon trial," Suede said.
"I don't have to look at it, Uncle. I was a part of it."
"Yes. I just watched the scene where you left the studio again. Do you think those breasts were genuine?"
Owen thought of Emma. "One can only speculate."
"I'll tell you what I hope. I hope they nail this zealot. Not that I have anything against him personally. I like his clothes. I'm thinking of growing a beard. What do you think?" He lifted his chin to show Owen his profile.
"I was trying to help him out," Owen said.
"Thank God you're incompetent. These historicals can't take care of themselves, they expect us to take care of them. That's why God built prisons." Uncle Suede dug into his ham and eggs.
Owen stared at the cereal in his bowl. Emma's reaction to his bungled testimony had been miraculously understanding. She gave him every credit for trying to do the right thing. "It showed completely," she said, "the kind of man you are."
=Nothing is more enjoyable than watching the privileged classes enjoying their privileges,= Bill said.
"Uncle Suede didn't mean to hurt my feelings," Owen subvocalized. "He's harmless."
=The very rich are different from you and me. They have more excuses.=
"What do you mean?'
=That man has never taken responsibility for anything in his entire life. Crablice have more social conscience.=
"Where did you learn to talk like that?"
=The update gave me a new heuristic subroutine.=
"Well, you've never criticized my family before. Stop it."
=Yassuh, boss.=
After breakfast Owen excused himself and went back to his room to get ready for the ceremony. Jeeves helped him on with the wedding suit. Owen's father came in and gave him some advice on the honeymoon. "If I have one word to say, it's this, son: steak. The rarer the better."
Rosethrush came in to inspect him. She had chosen the tux. On the one hand Owen’s mother wanted to control every aspect of the ceremony; on the other she was so caught up in the progress of the Zealot trial she could not pay good attention to details. The dramatic surprises of the closing arguments had boosted her interest to the point where she wanted to postpone the wedding. Owen refused. But the publicity, she protested! A thing like this needed handling. It didn’t matter, Owen said. If she wanted a wedding, it would have to go as planned; if she didn’t it was fine with him and Emma--they would elope.
For the first time in his life, Owen prevailed on something.
After they took their shots at him, Owen's parents retreated downstairs. He chased Jeeves away too. Then he dawdled in his room, picked up the plastic titanosaur he had played with as a child, ran his hand over the poster-sized photograph of the bright green and orange allosaurus that Wilhelm had brought back from the first visit to the Jurassic. He paged through the text of the Wheeler paper, then turned it off. His boyhood was over now.
At the top of the stairs he hesitated, his mind filled with images of Emma. The curve of her calf, the soft indentation of her upper chest between her breasts, the light down of fair hair on her forearm catching the sunlight, the curve of her lower lip in profile, her white teeth, her hair brushing her cheek.
He went down to the entrance hall. The house was strangely silent. The hardwood floors gleamed. The flowers on the side tables inundated the room in sweet scent. No one was there. In the south gallery the gifts were piled in high profusion. No one was there, either. The ceremony was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes. He looked out the window to the pavilion, and saw only the serving staff. He wandered through the first floor, looking for the guests.
Finally he found them in the den, lounging, standing, sitting on the arms of chairs--all watching the screen on the wall.
"What's going on?"
"LEX is going to announce its verdict."
#
Gen was upstairs in the room they had given her, supposedly getting dressed. She sat on the chair before the vanity, veil in hand. She had sent the ladies' maid out for help, and instead, like 400 million other citizens, had the Simon the Zealot trial running on a window in the mirror.
Yeshu's courtroom appeal had been one of the most effective arguments for jury nullification that Gen had ever heard. It was an argument that would work as well for a murderer as an innocent. She hoped, when the boot of the law finally came down on her some day, she had a lawyer that shameless.
The bombshell that Ben Simeon was Simon’s son only sweetened the sale. Net heads across the wired world, and by remote from Mars and the moon, voted their glands. The PR meters swung into the green.
But LEX had taken a long time in his deliberations. The wirehacks filled the screens with gas. Who was really behind the Yeshu appearance? Did Simon have grounds for a countersuit regarding exploitation of his son?
The host of the analysis, a way posthuman named Aron Bliss, displayed his lethal cheekbones as he speculated. "Did Saltimbanque have Lincoln killed for effect? There has been no official autopsy on the dead historical. Lincoln was only appointed head of the company's Moral Spokespersonship a month before his appearance at the trial. And sources have said that he was merely a figurehead for advanced corporate superintelligences. What do you think, Hiroko?"
"I think as little as possible, Aron. But I do know that the readings on the trial were disappointing up until that last day in the courtroom. First we have the comic interlude with Dr. Owen Vannice. The prime hostage double-crosses the plaintiff's lawyers and attempts to support Simon. Then the double-barreled surprises of Lincoln and Yeshu." She raised one perfectly painted eyebrow. "It couldn't have worked out better for Vannicom if it had all been orchestrated, could it?"
Bliss assumed his full moral stature--he was over two meters tall. "One thing we do know, Hiroko, this media appearance certainly has brought Yeshu back from the dead. The bandit leader, the messianic claimant, the millennial prophet, the protester, the magician, in all his lethal charisma! Vannicom CEO Rosethrush Vannice, biomother of Dr. Owen Vannice, had this to say about . . . just a minute, Hiro. Central tells me that LEX has returned with a verdict! Let's go back to the courtroom immediately!"
The VR image zipped Bliss and his partner into the third row of the courtroom set. The lawyers were hastily resuming their positions. Behind the defense table, Yeshu sat with Simon and Diane Ontiveros.
The judge's door opened. LEX stepped out to return to the bench, no longer a carrion bird but a resplendent bird of paradise. The virtual representation of the contractually agreed upon legal entity looked over the room, and at last, spoke.
"We find the defendant, Simon the Zealot, Guilty, but Innocent!" LEX sang. “Culpable! But free as me, as a big beautiful bird!” It held up its iridescent-feathered hand, palm open, high above the crowd. "Peace be with you."
Yeshu held up his own hand. "And also with you."
A hundred reporters fired off their acquittal leads. Simon, weeping, fell to his knees before his cousin. Yeshu took him by the shoulders and made him rise. It was great video.
Over the image of the boisterous courtroom, Aron Bliss's voice spoke. "There you have it, folks. The verdict 'Guilty, but Innocent,' means that the defendant has been found guilty of the crime he is charged with, but that due to extenuating circumstances, malfeasance by the arresting authorities, extreme popularity--whatever--his guilt doesn't matter. Hiroko, in this case, what do you guess the reason--"
Gen flicked off the screen. What a coup! She had nothing but admiration for Simon. When had he contacted Yeshu? If Lance had known anything about it, he hadn't let on to her. No, it had to be Simon's own plan, and it revealed an understanding of the politics of his situation that was stunning for a man raised in the first century. Back in Jerusalem he had seemed overwhelmed by the time travelers. How had he managed to vector in on the weaknesses of the 21st century legal system? Clearly she had underestimated him.
And Owen? Despite the fact that she had mocked Owen's attempt to help Simon, there was something remarkable about it. Owen came from a class of people who would not spend a second worrying about fairness to a historical, let alone a terrorist who had held him hostage. Even if his testimony was wrongheaded, it reminded her of the goofy innocent she had fallen for back in Jerusalem.
The maid returned with a helper and a paper of pins. "We need to hurry," she said. "People are gathering on the lawn!"
"I bet they're watching the trial."
"Well, maybe. But you need to get ready."
Gen let them fuss over her, and within minutes she was set, trussed up like a Christmas goose and twice as appetizing. She had to admire her figure in the full length mirror. When he got a look at her, Owen would faint from loss of blood.