Corrupting Dr. Nice (22 page)

Canady pressed ahead. "If it's not beneath you, Dr. Vannice, you should go down to your local mall and walk into an art shop, where anyone of modest means can purchase an original of the
Mona Lisa
,
Starry Night
, or
The Persistence of Memory
."

"But the effects on historicals--" Owen said.

"For every historical who's been harmed by a disease brought from the future, we've saved ten using modern medical science. Why see those created moment universes as a debit when they could as easily be seen as a great unintended benefit of time visiting. Whole new universes exist. Whole new versions of history. Who's to say that the inhabitants of those alternative histories don't live better lives than they lived in our own history?"

"Ask Simon about that," Owen said.

Canady turned back to Owen, as if he'd forgotten him. "Dr. Vannice, I seem to recall that you are running an experiment on an apatosaurus."

"That's true."

"A creature that's been extinct for sixty-five million years. Are you telling us that you harmed the past by bringing that creature to the present? That you're harming the dinosaur by studying it? How can you, who altered history yourself by establishing your research station and bringing her here, take a position in opposition to time travel?"

"I know things about that dinosaur that you can't possibly understand."

"So you say. In the area of paleontology I'm prepared to listen. As a witness to the assault on the Jerusalem hotel you are no doubt reliable. But as an expert on the effects of time travel you are a paranoid who would impoverish our cultural and economic lives, for nothing."

"Objection!" Dianne Ontiveros said.

"I withdraw the question," Canady said. "That's all, your honor."

=Splat.=

"The witness is excused!" LEX crowed. "Used and abused!"

Owen looked over at the defense table. Dianne Ontiveros was watching the viewer reaction indicator with a grim expression on her face. Simon sat as impassive as if nothing had happened. On the way out Owen glanced over his shoulder and saw the needle in the far red.

Owen's boots felt like they were made of lead, and he did not need to look at them to know they were a humiliated purple. He left the courtroom as quickly as possible. On the steps in front of the studio, he was greeted by a host of reporters. Owen brushed them aside. But as he tried to move toward his waiting limousine, a woman in sixteenth century Japanese clothing threw herself at him. She tore apart the top of her kimono, exposing her breasts. "We're all animals!" she shouted. "We're all extinct!"

Owen gave her his coat, then ducked into the limo. "Thanks for not killing her," Owen told Bill.

=Hard work ends obsessive bed poetry laughter.=

#

Throughout Vannice's testimony Simon watched the indicator plunge steadily toward "convict." At the end Diane Ontiveros was scribbling furious notes on her thinkpad. "You have to let me make the closing statement," she whispered to Simon, "or this case is lost."

"If the case is lost, then it doesn't matter who speaks," Simon said. "Allow me the dignity of choosing my own end."

LEX stood. "Next come the closing arguments. For those of you who may have tapped in late, we remind you that the defendant Simon the Zealot is charged with conspiracy, riot, kidnapping and attempted murder. In order that we may proceed without any misunderstandings, let me reiterate that I am going to allow consuls for the defense and plaintiff wide latitude in their arguments. We've seen the physical and testimonial evidence, experienced the unsuccessful raid on the Herod's Palace Hotel in the 1200 GMT 29 C.E. Moment-Universe and its aftermath. But from what perspective are we to view this incident? Justice is a public thing. Justice is political. Prejudice, hearsay, misinformation, ignorance and plain block-headed stupidity all must have their say. That's where you in the participating audience come in."

LEX paused and glared down at the contending representatives like an upstart crow. "In the closing statements, as per the previously enacted coin flip, the plaintiff has first serve."

Jerry Canady stood. "We've called in a special spokesman for closing, LEX."

"Objection!" Ontiveros shouted.

"Is this going to be interesting, Mr. Canady?" LEX asked.

"I hope it will be very interesting."

"Okay, I'm going to allow it. Who is this new spokesman?"

"Our closing argument will be made by a Saltimbanque employee: Mr. Abraham Lincoln."

At that even the spectators in the room murmured. The door at the back opened and in walked a gangly bearded man. Ontiveros put her head in her hands. "Who is this?" Simon asked her.

"This is your worst nightmare," the lawyer muttered.

An untidy shock of black hair fell over the tall man's forehead. He wore an awkward black suit. Stoop shouldered, his face deeply lined, he moved to the performance area. He lifted his head and took a good long look at LEX. If he was intimidated it did not show.

"Your honor, thank you for this opportunity. Part of this case rests on the proper treatment of historicals. I was born in 1809. On April 14, 1865, while attending a play at Ford's Theater, I was shot by the actor John Wilkes Booth. Thirty seconds after the assault I was abducted by a team of agents from the Saltimbanque Corporation, rushed to an intensive care unit in the year 2058, and through the miracles of modern medicine experienced a full recovery. Were it not for the intervention of the people of your time, I would not be alive today. And thanks to the Saltimbanque Corporation, I have my son Will back, and my family reunited.

"I want to speak to the issue of the exploitation of the past.

"I do not pretend to understand the awful power that men have bent to the service of time travel. I do not pretend to be able to weigh, or judge, what is a people's just deserts. Certainly the defendant, a man of the Holy Land, who walked the same stones that the son of the creator walked over two thousand years ago, has a knowledge of his own place and time that I cannot contradict.

"But I am otherwise acquainted with the people of the past, whom you call historicals. For the most part, historicals are poor. That does not mean they are helpless. We make our own world, and we have the will to affect it. Under this new dispensation, all people of all times are brothers; through the portal of your machines, they are neighbors. Commerce with people of the future offers the historical the chance to eliminate that poverty that has been the lot of most men from our fathers' times to this. Change is coming.

“But in this new world, as in the old one, it cannot be just to take up arms against one's neighbor without just cause. Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history. And history, it seems, cannot escape us. It must be therefore that the people of the past will have to learn to live in a world which contains the future. Time travel offers the poor their last, best chance to seize their own lives, to rise or fall on their merits. It offers the freedom my people fought for a chance to work.

"It seems to me, however reluctant I may be to say so, that the defendant’s actions, and those of his fellows, as well as a rebellion against duly constituted authority, were an admission that they could not rise to the occasion that was offered them. We must not rejoice in their failure, but neither should we condone it. The Saltimbanque Corporation may be an alien force in ancient Jerusalem, but it is not the corporation that rules in Jerusalem; it is Simon’s people. A just God will have to decide whether this man has sinned, but there can be no doubt that he has raised his hand against his neighbor. In 1865 the people of the future intervened to prevent a bitter man, in the service of a lost cause, from killing me. Fervently I pray that we not establish the letting of blood in anger as a proper response to the peaceful intercourse we seek.” He touched his breast, looked sadly over at the defense table. “Simon, my brother, it does my heart pain to say this."

Lincoln finished speaking, turned, and, like a pine tree in a southern forest, slowly, majestically, fell over.

The spectators gasped. The lawyers rushed forward, rolled the Great Emancipator onto his back, and loosened his collar. "Call a doctor, call a doctor!" someone yelled. Lamont tore open Lincoln's shirt, and leaned forward to listen to his heart. Slowly he sat back on his heels. He looked up at LEX. "Your honor," he said. "He's dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes. It looks like a massive coronary."

It took them forty minutes to bring in an emergency crew, remove the body and restore order. On the trial indicator, the figure listing the number of viewers tuned in tripled. Ontiveros turned fishy white. When LEX asked her to make her closing statement her mouth opened and shut several times in silence.

"I ask for a recess until tomorrow, LEX."

"Request denied," LEX said. "The air time is already scheduled. If we cut away now Lincoln will have died in vain--as far as ratings go."

"Now is the time," Simon whispered to the advocate. "Let me speak."

Ontiveros shrugged. "At least you've got an audience. I advise you to keep it simple."

Simon rose. "Given the fact that my accusers were allowed to call in this Abraham at the last minute," he said, "I would like to call in a friend to speak for me."

"We object, your honor,” Canady said. “We haven't had this new spokesperson registered with the court. He shouldn't be allowed to spring some surprise on us."

"Mr. Lincoln's concluding rhetorical ploy here was certainly a surprise," LEX said. "I'll allow it. Mr. Simon, who is it you wish to speak for you? Is she or he here today?"

"I believe he is waiting outside. Would someone go back and see if Yeshu is ready?"

The courtroom buzzed. The doors opened again, and from the back of the room Jesus stepped forward. He was older than the Yeshu that Simon remembered. This was the one Detlev Gruber had told him about, recruited from a different moment universe. Since a brief period of fame after his retrieval, he had retreated to his privacy in Central America, his celebrity stolen by younger versions of Jesus not so burdened with personal history.

The wide sleeves of Yeshu’s robe draped away from his strong brown arms. He was short, clean shaven, balding, though a fringe of dark hair hung to his shoulders. His penetrating green eyes were wrinkled at the corners, as if he had spent a lot of time squinting into the sun without the least of cosmetic rejuvenators. He came forward, hugged Simon. The feel of his strong arms around him brought back memories that misted Simon's eyes.

Yeshu advanced to the center of the performance area. "Thank you, your honor, for giving me this chance to speak for this man, Simon." His English was excellent, the trace of Aramaic showing through only adding to the voice's warm luster.

“Like Mr. Lincoln, I am a historical. Like him I was rescued from the point of my death, by men from an age I did not understand, for purposes I could not fathom. I remember standing before Pilate, feeling the pain of my whipped back, calm in the knowledge I would soon be dead in the service of the kingdom of God. But I did not die.

"Instead, have lived in your world for twenty years, now. At first I saw only its wonders. I was awed by its wealth. I was stunned by my salvation from the hands of the Romans. I was taken from my people, surrounded by those who called me their leader, who were not even Jews. I loved to eat, and drink, and you gave me much to eat and drink. I was lost. I lost myself.

“After a time I withdrew. I found a place alone in the wilderness, and the world went on to find another Yeshu, one that better suited its needs. I have spent all this time silent, because I did not know what to say. I did not know what I
could
say.

"Now I am back. I am back because though I could not speak for myself, I discovered I could speak, must speak, for this man. I have the advantage of knowing this world he has been forced into; he does not."

Though he had calculated this moment for months, Simon was surprised at the emotion that overwhelmed him. To hear that voice again, feel the power of that person. He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and listened.

"Not many know that Simon is my cousin. He was a violent, an angry man. Many years ago, in a time and place so remote it seems at times like a dream to me, I went to his wedding. When the servants ran out of wine, I showed them how to drink water as wine. Simon became one of my friends, and followers. He turned from violence to peace. He strove to turn the other cheek. Let he who thinks this is easy, do it. He loved his wife, and his child. Now his wife is dead, and his son--I will tell you later about his son.

"Simon's name has significance. 'Simon the Zealot.' The zealot represents the zeal in man, the thirst for righteousness. The name 'Simon' means he who hears, hearkens, obeys and understands. He hears not just the words of other men, and the teachings of his fathers, but also an inner voice that cannot be explained. Simon is one who is receptive to the indwelling immortal life.

"Many of the things Simon has heard are sayings we have all been told. One of them is known to all Jews: 'When you cut down your harvest in the field, and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go again to fetch it: it shall be for the stranger, for the fatherless, and for the widow: that the Lord thy God may bless you in all the work of your hands . . . And you shall remember that thou wast a bondsman in the land of Egypt: therefore I command you to do this thing.'

"Simon, as he joined in that band of desperate men, confronting a world distorted by powerful strangers, the Saltimbanque corporation and its lawyers, money and soldiers, listened to a private voice. He hearkened and obeyed. He understood the parable of the sheaves left in the field.

"Does any of this absolve him of the desire to hurt, and kill? These men who persecute him--" Yeshu gestured, smiling slightly, to the plaintiff's table, "--say that others are not responsible for his actions. I would ask you: What man is entirely responsible for his own actions? I do not serve violence. I do not condone Simon's actions. But I ask that you ask yourself this: in the state prison, who kills the condemned man? Who owns the death penalty chamber? Who pays for the poison that is given there? If not us, then who?