“We are being serious,” Waterstone grumbled. “A knowledgeable jury would shake our justice system to its foundation.
Now, Gotobed was getting perturbed as well. “And the people who designed this system, were they insane or just psychotically misanthropic?”
“Specialist,” Lear chided. “It isn’t our place to criticize other cultures.”
“I have real doubts over whether their system is going to give justice to TyroCommander Redfire. We should at least offer them the use of our truth machines.”
“Truth machines?” Harmony asked.
Gotobed should have figured that they did not have truth machines. “Devices, used together with highly trained telepaths, that could determine instantly whether TyroCommander Redfire is guilty or not.”
“There’s no provision in our legal system for ‘truth machines,’“ Waterstone huffed.
Gotobed’s sarcasm was unstrained. “I can understand why. If you knew the truth, you’d lose out on the melodrama of a trial.”
Waterstone stood up and leaned over the desk, poking his finger at Gotobed. “Perhaps if TyroCommander Redfire had committed his crime on board your ship, he could avail himself of your laws, but he didn’t. He committed murder in my jurisdiction, and he will be tried according to the laws of the planet Winter.” He was so keyed up he was shaking slightly, and Gotobed thought he was going to hit her.
She wasn’t afraid of him. She met him eye-to-eye. “When I walked in here, all I wanted was to agree to a way to find the truth. But now, as determined as you are to see Lieutenant TyroCommander Redfire imprisoned or executed for this crime, I am twice as determined to see him found innocent.” Waterstone met her gaze, with just a hint of fierce crazinesss in his beady blue eyes. “Then, take your best shot, Miss Gotobed. I’ll see you in court.”
Winter – Habi Zob – The Dungeon
Redfire stalked around the confines of his cell, which contained a large hammock covered with blankets, a wine cabinet, several books, a fur rug on the floor, and, toward the back, a large mineral bath and toilet. Redfire pounded the walls, “Somebody get me out of this hellhole.”
“It isn’t so bad,” Specialist NightStalker cooed through the bars. “You could be outdoors. It’s been sleeting for the past hour.” Her voice was mellow and husky, and made him think of wine again.
Redfire came to the heavy doors and peered through the bars at her. She stood to the side, and all he could see was the bulbulous outline of her large breasts straining against the fabric of her Watchmen’s garb.
“Easy for you to say.”
She took a breath. Her breasts heaved. “TyroCommander, seeing as we’re stuck down here, just you and me … and this other guy… may I ask you something about the Aurelians?”
“I don’t remember you from Tactical Core, are you?” he asked.
He heard her laugh. “Officially, I serve in Meteorological Survey, an exo-climatologist. My specialty is tropical systems, but this planet doesn’t have one, obviously. I volunteered to guard you. I’ve been a long time admirer of yours commander. Some of us on the ship, well, we’re not officially involved in tactical core, but we get together and talk the Aurelians. We’ve come up with some really interesting… insights, that maybe are worth your attention. I thought that guarding you would give me a unique opportunity to discuss… some of my theories about the Aurelians.”
Wonderful, Redfire thought. Why did every crewmen who had ever played the Game of Resistance fancy herself a tactical expert. “And of what interests are the Aurelians to a Climatologist?”
“The Aurelians are unlike anything we expected to encounter out here,” she said. “Not human, but not alien either. They consider themselves the next step in evolution. That was what you said in your report, right?”
“Za.”
“One might wonder, not if they are right, necessarily, but what informs this opinion of themselves.”
“I would never concede that they were superior to us,” Redfire said.
“You don’t have to concede it, but if you are going to fight them, don’t you have to understand their view of their own selves? Are you familiar with the word ‘voluptuary?’“ NightStalker asked, undeterred.
“Of course,” Redfire answered. “It means a hedonist, a sybarite, someone concerned only with sensual pleasure.”
“From what I have seen, it is a term that could apply equally to the Aurelians and to the people on this planet. The Aurelians achieved their philosophy through evolution, the Ancients have achieved theirs through longevity, but they are both at the same place. They probably would have a lot to talk about.”
“I really don’t want to talk about the Aurelians right now,” Redfire said, and he meant it. He went to the back of his cell and lay down in his hammock.
“I understand, TyroCommander,” NightStalker said. “However, neither one of us is going anywhere for a while. I will be here next to the door if you change your mind.” C h a p t e r N i n e
Pegasus – Fast Eddie’s InterStellar Slam-N-Jam On one level, the reduced popularity of the Slam-n-Jam did not bother Eddie too much. It was less work, for one thing. It also meant that the people who came on the off nights were regulars, familiar names and faces. On an especially slow night, he was free to sit with Eliza Jane Change with a big plate of hot chips and two steins of homebrewed ale, as he did this night.
“The planet’s law enforcement authorities have asked for all of Tactical TyroCommander Redfire’s personnel records,” Eliza Jane Change confided to him.
“And you gave them to them?”
“Actually, Ex. TyroCommander Lear did. She said we have to honor their laws, regardless of how idiotic they are.”
“I can’t believe they’re going to put the collar on TyroCommander Redfire. He was always an upright citizen to me, even if he did kill that assol on the planet.”
Change shook her head. “No one believes he did.”
“Even if he did, he shouldn’t go to jail for it. If it was my kid, well, I probably wouldn’t have killed him. I’m totally non-violent, but I’d’ve found a way to blow up his head real good.”
“Matthew, without using quite such vivid imagery, made the same point about the need of a father to protect his children.”
“So, where’s the fly-guy?”
“He is taking Trajan Lear through a simulated training exercise.” Eddie, offended, shoved another chip in his mouth, and spoke as he chewed. “He’d rather do that than drink beer with us? What’s his damage?”
“He’s going to ask me to marry him,” Eliza told Eddie. “It’s been almost exactly one-point-five Republic years since we began dating, which is the prescribed waiting period, and you know Matthew.”
“Like dating a human metronome,” Eddie nodded. “What will you tell him?” She slammed her glass down. “Damn it, Eddie, I don’t know.”
That was not quite true. She knew what she was going to tell him, she just had not yet figure out how.
Winter – Ultima Thule
The nearest settlement to Lord Tyronius estate was a collection of thick-walled buildings of timber and stone (finely carved, but weathered) with deep-set windows huddled together in a sheltered canyon just above the flood plain of an occasional river. The river ran only when subterranean lava flows melted glaciers in the highlands and water rushed into the canyon. This was the village of Ultima Thule.
(formerly New Ultima Thule, before the inhabitants rather cynically decided that nothing was really new any more.’)
In the largest building of Ultima Thule, there was an octagonal room paneled in dark wood, scrubbed clean and polished with pine needles. The atmosphere in this room was charged, like a psychic residue of fierce arguments and difficult decisions. For those who ran afoul, or were accused of running afoul, of the law in the Land of Geminorum Borealis, the name of the subcontinent on which Ultima Thule was the largest settlement, this was where they went to be judged.
There were two rows of benches,
four deep, in the back of the room. The right side was reserved for those siding with Tactical TyroCommander Redfire, the Defendant. Its benches were filled with Redfire’s friends and some Specialists from Sociological Survey, studying the administration of law on this strange planet, all clad in Odyssey Project dress uniforms. Conspicuously absent was the Defendant’s ex-wife.
On the left sat several curious villagers from Ultima Thule and several Powerful Lords and Ladies who had cast lots and called in favors to see what promised to be the most diverting amusement since the Avalanche that wiped out Lord Harbinger’s estate 500 years before.
Nearby was another seating arrangement, the most exclusive of all, with seats for the six villagers who would decide Redfire’s guilt or innocence; the jury. They had juries on Sapphire and Republic, of course, but on those worlds, jurors were highly paid professionals, well-trained in all matters of law, justice, and philosophy. The jurors here were amateurs, who had actually been selected on the basis of knowing nothing about the case. Gotobed still could not shake this absurdity out of her head.
Lord Waterstone and his assistant took their seats the left-hand table. Feigning obliviousness to the crowd, they busied themselves with pages and pages of notes in front of them. A short time later, Redfire was brought in, dressed in a formal uniform, escorted by the Watchman, Nightstalker, and Lord Brigand.
Specialist Gotobed was last at the table, accompanied by a heavy, strong white haired man in the uniform of a ship’s Watchman. “How are you holding up, Phil?” she asked.
“Just fine, Christina.”
“Do you know Chief Inspector Churchill,” she asked.
Redfire squinted. “We are acquainted.”
“All rise,” called the voice of a tall, bald man standing at the back of room. “The Criminal Court for the Province of Geminorum Borealis is now in session. The honorable Justice Ponce de Leon Braithwaite presiding.”
A dark-skinned man with a trim beard, his hair in long, tentacle-like braids unlike anything the crew had seen before, emerged. He wore a thin black robe. “You all can be seated now,” called the Judge, his voice speaking in an accent that, even without the Lingotron, was different than the others. Throatier, manlier, but somehow lyrical “Now, will someone tell me what all the trouble is, here?” He reclined in his chair and rested a finger aside of his cheek.
Waterstone approached the bench. “Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what we have here is murder.” He paused for effect. “Yes, let me say that again, murder. On this cold, dark, dreary planet, the only gift we have is the gift of eternal life, and we prize it more dearly than treasure. Just as there is nothing more sacred than life, and there is no greater abomination than the wanton destruction of life.” By now, he had strolled toward the jury box. His voice fell to almost a confidential tone. “We are in a room with a killer, and he is seated right… over… there.” He pointed at Redfire.
He continued, a little lower in voice, but no less intense and quickly, like a pot of hot water building to rolling boil. “You are going to here some shocking things in this court room. You are going to gruesome details of a horrific and violent crime. You are going to hear about a man who has literally made a career out of violent acts, which he calls art. You’re going to see how Mr. Redfire was the only one who had the motive, and the opportunity, and the will, and the skill to perform this horrible crime and how he attempted to flee the planet, murder weapon in hand, before he was caught.” Waterstone was reaching his crescendo now. Every sentence was delivered with wide, angry, incredulous eyes. He turned to the jury and spoke with barely contained rage, as though he would do furious and terrible things to them if they dare let this killer walk free. “Your duty is simple, good lords and ladies. Listen to the evidence, and see if you can draw any conclusion other than that Tactical Commander Redfire killed Clinton Manchester is guilty! Guilty! Guilty!” With that he regained his table, pausing only a minute to fix Redfire with a long, contemptuous stare, as though guarding himself against the possibility that this crazed killer would lash out.
Specialist Gotobed, wearing a dress uniform and her long brown hair gathered into a distinguished bun, stood up behind her table. “Lord Braithewaite…”
“Judge Braithewaite… or better yet, your honor,” he corrected her.
She nodded curtly, a gesture Brigand had taught her. “Your honor, I’m not here to give a speech. I am not completely familiar with the way law is practiced on your world, but I can not believe that having this jury guess what happened, based on an incomplete set of facts, serves justice. How can justice be done when we have the means to know the truth, and we deny it. We can prove Redfire was innocent with one simple test if you just let us bring down our truth machines, and remove any doubt as to his guilt or innocence.”
“Objection,” Waterstone leaped to his feet and was at the bench instantly, as though he had projected himself there by sheer force of will. “There is no recognition for truth machines under the laws of this planet. If anything, the law specifically excludes mechanical devices that determine if a defendant is telling the truth from evidence.”
The judge turned to Gotobed and prompted her. “How would you answer his argument?” Gotobed stood firm. “First, truth machines are not strictly mechanical devices, they are quasi-technological expansions of telepathic ability. Second, the truth machines do not tell if Redfire is lying or not, they prevent him from lying. He would only be able to tell the truth.” Waterstone jumped in. “She’s asking the court to invoke a hyper-technical application of the law to accommodate an unknown, and unproven technology.”
Gotobed interrupted. “Truth machines have been the basis of law on our planets for over a thousand years.”
Waterstone was not finished. “Furthermore, counsel has not made any motion for this new evidence to be entered.”
The judge pursed his lips. “Technically, that is true. However, if counsel would present her evidence, her truth machine evidence, in the form of an opening statement, the court might be moved to consider it.”
Gotobed was about to ask how, when Lord Brigand stood. “If it please the court, I will submit a formal and proper motion on behalf of the Defendant’s counsel for the inclusion of so-called ‘truth machine evidence,’ into the proceedings.”
“Now, that is more like it, mon,” said the judge. “Counselor, Lord Brigand knows his way around the court room. I recommend you retain him as an advisor for the length of this trial. Meantime, I will rule on including this evidence when I have had a chance to see these truth machines in action. How long?”
“They are standing by on board Pegasus. We could have them here in two hours.”
“Then, we adjourn for two hours. See you then,” he hit his gavel on the table and everyone stood as he left the room again.
Gotobed turned to Brigand. “Thank you.”
A near smile twitched one half of the mouth visible under his mask. “The laws of this planet are quite arcane compared to yours. I will offer my assistance to ensure that your man gets the trial to which he is entitled.”
Winter – The Ice Plains of Sker
Dashing though the snow in 14-ton armored metal hovercraft propelled by a huge turbine pulse jet engine, William Keeler and the Lady Goldenrod tore through the arctic landscape at barely subsonic speeds.
The rocket sled, a monstrosity of metal and fire, half tank, half torpedo with long, banana-shaped skids underneath, dashed across a frozen lake whose surface was gray, hard, and mottled like marble.
Snow devils whirled, rose and fell in its wake. Then, in a flash, it found a narrow pass between mountain ranges and charged through.
Goldenrod was at the controls. There were a pair of control sticks for steering, and a thruster cluster in the center column that had been jammed all the way forward from the moment they had departed Lord Tyronius’s estate. She turned to him and smiled. He couldn’t hear what she said, but he recognized the mouth movements. “Isn’t this fun?”
Goldenrod, who could not have overheard him over the whine and roar of the engine, turned and looked at him. A grin spread across her broad, pretty features. “Do you want me to go faster?”
“Neg,” said Keeler. “Must not go faster, must not go faster.”
She threw her head back and laughed. Keeler double-checked the heavy restraints that secured him to his seat, then cast a long look through the windscreen at the landscape flashing by outside.
He had never seen anything quite like this world, although he might have had he visited the Borealan hinterlands or the ice-giant Archon in the Republic system. As it was, he never made it any deeper into Boreala than one of the finer ski resorts and no closer to Archon than the several tons of Archonian ice he had imported for his Commemoration Party when he was confirmed as Chancellor at the University of Sapphire at New Cleveland. (Said ice makes a very satisfying crackle in a glass of gin and tonic.) First after leaving Lord Tyronius’s estate, they had crossed an ice bridge across the sea of Hiver, clipping the tips off of icebergs trapped in the frozen water. They crossed a rocky shore then veered away from some rolling hills that looked surprising brown and dirty against the snowy landscape, like the spots of a brown and white cow.
Winter was not an ice world. Although the dominant geographical features of the landscape were glaciers, but they were often off in the distance. Much of the surface was snow covered, but there were also bare spots, which she avoided, and little canyons, valleys, and rifts that were actually green with plant-life. These were places that split open when Cardinal passed near, releasing life-giving heat from the planet’s interior, or received the kiss of ocean currents warmed by the same dance of gravity and geophysics. Keeler had seen little evidence of human inhabitation. In some ways, the presence of so few humans made it seem more lonely and desolate than on a planet with no humans at all, like Medea or Loki.
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