“Do you recognize this Mr. Redfire?” Waterstone asked.
“Za, it’s a work called ‘Have a Nice Day.’ It’s when I destroyed the Enterprise Commercial center in the city of Coolsville on Sapphire.”
“And this one…”
The next image showed a bridge, a double-decker, double span stretching across a wide, broad river.
Suddenly, water shot straight up in the air, a hundred columns or more, like waterspouts. They tore and tore at the bridge until it collapsed into the river below.
“’Troubled Water,’ the destruction of the Seriate Bridge on the Old Man River on Sapphire.”
“How about this one?”
A big, slab-shaped building rose up into the air, managing to stay together long enough to slam into the building adjacent, which slammed into the next, and into the next, until all four structures collapsed in a single horrendous pile of rubble.
“’Domino Effect,’“ Redfire answered. “Teague Commercial Center, 7287. What of it?”
“What are these images to you, Mr. Redfire?”
“It’s my art.”
“Art… it’s your expression of your inner self in other words.”
“I suppose.”
“Could one rightfully conclude from this that you are a very violent man, Mr. Redfire?”
“Oh, come on,” Redfire said.
“You express yourself violently in your art, you express yourself violently when your family is threatened.”
“Your honor, now he’s just being silly,” Gotobed shot.
Not waiting for Braithewaite to over-rule, Waterstone jumped in. “Silly? Is it silly to bludgeon a man to death with a candlestick. Is it silly to get outraged because you, Mr. Redfire, violated the highest law of our planet. Thou shalt not kill. We have nothing on this planet but endless life, and when you attacked Clinton Manchester, you took the one thing from him that could not be replaced.” Waterstone was shaking with rage again. “Your crime was not just against Clinton Manchester, sir. Your actions were an assault against this planet, and against the only thing we have. I have no further questions.”
“Your honor…!” Gotobed began.
“Restrain yourself, mon.” His eyes flashed toward the jury box. They did not seem to have been especially moved by Waterstone’s speech. Even Gotobed knew this was a bad sign. It meant their minds had been made up.
“I think we all take a break now and be cool,” Braithewaite announced. “Let’s recess for the day, and come back when everyone be mellow again, iree?”
C h a p t e r E l e v e n
Winter – Habi Zod
“That didn’t go very well, did it?” said NightStalker. Redfire was back in his cell enjoying, if that was even the word, a prison meal consisting of a hearty stew made with homemade noodles, spiced gravy, two kinds of native meats, and a combination of potato-, onion-, and turnip-like vegetables, served with hot, fresh buttered bread on the side, and a bottle of moderately decent merlot.
He paused to answer her. “Specialist Gotobed pointed out on cross-examination that none of my art has ever contained an act of violence against a human being.”
“It may not have been enough, and the whole episode might have been a ploy by Waterstone to draw you off-message,” NightStalker said. “I am not sure where the jury is headed with this. The evidence against you is convincing, but Specialist Gotobed opened up some genuine points of uncertainty. Maybe enough to make Lord Waterstone offer a deal.”
Redfire shoved more hot buttered bread in his mouth. Regardless of what might happen to him, he still needed carbohydrates. “A deal?” he said around his food.
“Yes, a deal by which you agree to admit to a lesser charge in return for a lighter sentence. It’s one of their more… curious legal customs. I heard some of the Ancients discussing the possibility.” Redfire stopped eating. “So under their ridiculous legal system, you can go to prison for something you didn’t do to avoid being rightfully sentenced for something you did do?”
“Apparently so, it is intended to insure that the guilty receives some kind of punishment while sparing the judicial system the inconvenience of a trial. Although, from what I overheard, Lord Waterstone will not be a popular man if he does offer a deal. These people want your blood.” Redfire sighed and put down his spoon. There was a bread pudding and whisky sauce offered for dessert. He should have been too worried about his fate to eat, but found reserve within himself to consume the rich dish. He sighed and picked up his spoon again.
Somehow, he had stopped worrying about the Aurelians. He still could not sleep with thoughts of their agents on this world, plotting to add it to their list of conquests, but he now had come to realize that this trial was more than an inconvenience standing between him and his duty. His fate was in the hands of six people who knew nothing of him and were, from what he understood, the most guileless and dull-witted people the village could offer.
Grim thoughts, indeed.
Winter – The Alcazar of General Ziang
Wind was whipping up a fearsome mix of ice and dust particles and the high altitudes over the Great Dessicatation. These currents gave the Aves called Zilla a good rough slap as she powered down to the surface. One of her passengers did not care for this at all, and his howls carried from the rear of the passenger compartment all the way to the command deck.
Zilla descended straight down and made a spot-perfect landing before the well-hidden main gate of General Ziang’s estate. The hatch slid open, the pilot emerged, accompanied by a pair of gleaming blue and/oroids who hefted between them a lustrous black casket. The pilot was a small statured man, very young, wearing a heavy leather jacket that looked like it was borrowed from his older brother, and a thick beige woolen scarf against the sharp dry wind. When he reached Keeler and Goldenrod, standing by the gate, Flight Lieutnenant Blade Toto saluted. “Reporting as ordered, Commander Keeler, sir.”
“Oh, my God, he’s just darling!” Goldenrod gushed. “He’s so cute? Is he old enough to be flying that thing?”
Probably not, Keeler thought. Blade Toto looked like a kid, like he belonged back on Pegasus playing Calvinball, like the closest he should have been to an Aves was in class with Trajan Lear and Max Jordan.
It was his curse. His hair was the least interesting shade of mouse-brown imaginable, straight and brushy. His eyes were large and brown beneath thin, dark, straight-line eyebrows that should have lent him some seriousness, but only succeeded in accenting his overall boyishness. Keeler thought of Toto as the son he never should have had. “There should be someone else on the ship,” said the Prime Commander.
“He wouldn’t come out, sir,” Toto drawled. He had the heavy, languorous speech pattern of the midlands of Sapphire’s Alpha Continent which didn’t help his reputation at all.
Keeler wrapped his own scarf around his neck, a determined expression on his face. “We’ll see about that. You go on in. I hope you like sticky pastries and strong coffee. This guy’s crazy with them.” Toto kind of shrugged, kind of nodded, as though to say, “I guess now I’m going to have some sticky pastries and strong coffee because that’s what life put in store for me.” He gave the impression that if you told him General Ziang was going to throw him into a pit of starving rats, he would have responded with the same resignation. Some people come by this attitude after a lifetime of being beaten down and disappointed by unrelenting setbacks to their course of life. Toto had apparently been born with it.
Keeler had other work to do, and with a determined stride made his way toward the Aves. The wind kicked up his hair as he passed in front of the wingblade, and then he entered the hatch.
He left the hatch open, and shortly there was a sound like a woman screaming. Keeler reappeared at the hatch of the Aves with an animal in his arms. He tried to put it down, but it swatted at him. A resentful meatloaf of fur with flattened ears and burning green eyes was carried from the ship.
“Oooh, a kitty?” Goldenrod gushed.
“Oooh
, a hussy,” Queequeg snarled back at her, then turned to the Commander. “Don’t you even dare put my tender paws down on this cold, cold ground.”
“They have a better attitude if you neuter them,” said Goldenrod.
“Are you talking to me or him?” Keeler asked. “Come on, let’s get back inside. It’s so cold out here, if you wanted to neuter me, you’d need a rectal probe.”
They passed within the walls of the great estate. There was a small courtyard, but the most striking feature was the array of pipes that stuck into the ground, reaching deep to a volcanic vent that supplied heat… dry heat, to the whole estate. When they re-entered the house, the and/oroids had already carried the casket into the central area Keeler thought of as ‘the Conversation Pit.’ They were standing off to the side, silent sentinels counting electric sheep. Ziang was pouring coffee for Toto, who already had crumbs on his chin.
“You didn’t waste any time,” Keeler said.
Toto shrugged yet again. “I guess I was hungry.”
“What do you have for me to eat, really, really old guy,” Queequeg asked.
Ziang patted the cat’s head. “I believe I have some dried fish in my pantry.”
“Take me, I’m yours!” the cat exclaimed. The general brought him some dried fish and the cat curled up on a rug before the fire.
“So, you said you could arrange an audience with Lexington Keeler for me,” Ziang said. “I confess I am intrigued, but expect to be disappointed.”
Keeler’s eyes immediately flashed to Toto. While the existence of the Council of the Passed, ‘the Dead Guys’ was an open public secret on Sapphire, only a few had witnessed them in action, and no one knew that one of the ‘Dead Guys’ was on Pegasus. Keeler figured if anyone could deal with this, it was Toto. With
a slight sigh of his own, Keeler agreed. “Let’s get to it.” Winter – Ultima Thule
Closing arguments were delivered a short Winter day after Redfire was cross-examined by Waterstone. The Tactical TyroCommander was finding the adjustment to the rapid diurnal cycle of Winter to be somewhat disquieting. He felt as though he were living life at fast forward speed, that events were flying by twice as fast as they should. He rubbed his eyes as Specialist Gotobed and the Ancient, Brigand, took the bench next to him. “What happens now?” he asked.
Brigand repeated what he explained earlier. “Both Specialist Gotobed and Lord Waterstone will make one last speech before the jury, summarizing their case. Lord Waterstone will go first. The jury will then be dismissed with instructions to find you guilty or not guilty.” Hearing it again, Redfire still found the whole idea shocking and vaguely offensive. No professional jury to hear him, and no Truth Machines to set him free. This was a concept of justice worthy of a Sapphirean Street Circus. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to thank Brigand. “Gotobed and I are both grateful for your assistance through this trial.”
Brigand brushed him off. “No one else was willing to come forward. I wanted to see you had a chance at least at a fair trial. Your Gotobed learns quickly, and is quite sharp-witted. You should thank her.”
“If I get out of this, I will. You know, the thought occurs to me, if this jury does find me guilty, you are never going to find the actual murderer. You’ll have a killer among you.”
“Even if they find you not guilty, it will be the same,” Brigand told him. “The Enforcers are not going to search for another prospect.”
“Why not?”
“It will be assumed that you were guilty, but somehow managed to avoid justice. They will leave the file open, but they will not actively search for the killer.”
Insanity, Redfire thought. The back door opened, and in came Waterstone and Harmony, followed by a boisterous complement of villagers. They were shouting questions, which Waterstone studiously ignored.
Waterstone and Lowell took their seats without sparing the defense a look, promptly opened their brief cases, and pretended to make a few final word changes in the speech he had been practicing since the trial began. He had to wait only a few minutes before Judge Braithewaite called the court to order, and gave Waterstone leave to begin. The prosecutor came out from behind his table. There was no cock-of-the-walk swagger now. He moved with certainty, but also weariness. He looked tired, and the lines in his face were more pronounced and drawn than they had been before. His clothes seemed a little more rumpled than usual.
“As I walked into this courthouse today, it was snowing, as it has nearly every day for the past 3,882
years,” he began, his voice breaking at the pre-calculated spot in the speech. “This planet has only two gifts to bestow on its human inhabitants. It gives us geothermal energy, enough to make the place habitable and keep the snow from piling too deep, and it gives us life… long, immortal, miraculous life. ” His tone grew sharper. “Because we have so little else on this planet, just life and the eternal chill, sometimes an occasional promise of spring shown to be a lie, we cling to life. It is our precious gift, the only compensation for living on this cold and desolate world. Perhaps, that is more than an outsider can understand. Their lives are brief. A century? A century and a half if they are lucky. Fie!” Fie? Redfire thought.
“TyroCommander Redfire took the life of Clinton Manchester. On his world, where life is so fleeting, this may be seen as a fair punishment for the attempted and aborted … aborted … seduction of a child, but not here.” His eyes went wide, as they had seen so many times, and his body shook, but Lord Waterstone managed to keep a weary scratch in his voice, to remind the jury that his pursuit of justice was an exhausting chase.
“On his own world, Redfire called himself an artist. What he was … was a demolitionist. He expressed his aesthetic through the violent destruction of old unwanted things. In his mind, perhaps, the murder of Clinton Manchester was just the destruction of an old unwanted thing.
“On his ship, he serves as the chief tactical officer, where his duty is to protect his crew from threats.
In his mind, he saw Clinton Manchester as a threat to his crew, and he removed that threat, just as he did with the other enemies his ship had encountered. In this case, the threat was even more personal, to a young boy Redfire regarded as a son.”
He picked up the candlestick, which was contained in a plastic baggie. “After assaulting Manchester in the ballroom, Redfire found that his anger had not fully discharged, as he has admitted. He was still angry, so he left his room, as he has admitted. He waited, returned to the ballroom and grabbed this candlestick.” He lifted it high. “He then somehow encountered Manchester. He may have led him to the Conservatory, perhaps on the pretense of offering an apology.”
Waterstone moved menacingly toward the jury, still brandishing the candlestick perilously close to their heads. “When he and his victim were alone, Redfire smashed Clinton Manchester’s brains out and left them scattered on the floor.” He swung the candlestick to illustrate, let the jury take in its heaviness, the damage it could do.
“It did not take more than one or two blows, according to our detectives. Whoever assaulted Manchester had to have superior strength. One thing we know about these new humans, they are extraordinarily strong. Their muscles are denser than ours, and larger, and TyroCommander Redfire had received years of military training. He had the strength, the motive, and the weapon with which to deliver the fatal blow.”
“His death, had to have been agonizing,” Waterstone continued, musing angrily. He placed the candlestick down on the table, gently. “The very cells of Clinton Manchester’s body struggled to keep him alive as he lay on the floor, his skull smashed to pieces, his brain shredded, and dark, cold blood emptying from his wounds. A normal human would have died instantly, but some part of Clinton Manchester survived long enough for him to experience the horror and the agony of his own dying. The precious gift of eternal life snatched away from him by a vengeful outsider.”
Waterstone favored Redfire with a brief, contemptuous stare. “Redfire then took the weapon, escaped from t
he Conservatory. We don’t know how, it doesn’t matter. The next day, he was on a ship, preparing to flee this planet, to flee from justice once and forever. Were it not for the diligence of Enforcers Lambrusco and Brickbat, his crime would have been complete.
“But we caught him. We were lucky and we caught him, with the bloody candlestick still in his bag, with little bits of Clinton Manchester’s brains still clinging to it. We caught him, and now we can do justice, both to the memory of Clinton Manchester, and to the horrible assault that was made against us
… yes, against us! … by this man. When Redfire killed Clinton Manchester, he was telling us that our lives ought to be as brutal and short as the one he has known. He deserves punishment. He deserves to never see the light of day again.”
With that, Waterstone completed and sat down. Gotobed waited for him to sit, then stood, and slowly moved to the center of the courtroom. The assembly hushed, about to hang on her every word.
“You will all have to forgive me if I am not as eloquent, or emotive as Lord Waterstone,” Gotobed began. “You have been good enough to bear with me as I have stumbled through the strange laws and customs of your planet. I have been advised that the best way to argue against Lord Waterstone is to declare that the prosecution has not ‘met its burden,’ meaning they have not definitely proved that my friend, TyroCommander Redfire killed Manchester. My friend’s fingerprints were never found on the weapon, nor was any physical evidence found that he was ever inside the Conservatory. There was no blood found on his clothing or hair, despite the viciousness of the assault. He handed over the bag containing the bloody weapon as if he did not know what was inside, because he didn’t. Mr. Redfire has testified that he never touched that candlestick, and I believe him. Do you know what else they found in my friend’s bag? A pulse cannon – a weapon with which Redfire could have dispatched Manchester with a single shot.
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