by John Kessel
"Have you been paying attention to Saltimbanque's new mystery boy, Ben Simeon?" Parker asked. "Where did they find him? He’s flattened our latest album. It’s not fair for them to keep him under wraps. The very fact they won’t produce him is stealing our press. It's unethical."
"Maybe you need a new angle. I have a suggestion: a live percussionist. A historical giant."
"You're missing the concept. Anachros isn't just another time immigrant band. It isn't about historicals playing pop. It's about destroying the relevance of history. It's science as sound. AI percussion is a vital part of--"
"You want science, I've got science. Richard Feynman."
"Who?"
"Richard Feynman! One of the greatest physicists of the twentieth century. And a cutting edge drummer." The intercom buzzed again. Gracie's face came on. "Mr. Thrillkiller and that other man are here."
"Send them in." Parker wanted to keep complaining. She raised a hand. "We'll talk drummers later.”
The door opened and Lance Thrillkiller came in, followed by Simon. Thrillkiller had Simon dressed in a modern suit, and his trimmed beard might have passed for contemporary, but the bright orange court-mandated wristward stood out like a fire alarm. He was dark and small and his soft brown eyes were completely unreadable.
During the introductions, Parker offered Simon his hand. Simon looked at Parker calmly for a moment, then took it. Rosethrush offered them papaya juice. "I understand you've just returned from Seattle?" she asked Thrillkiller.
"We made all the local media outlets,” Thrillkiller said, “and did a mall interview. ComPP hosted a fundraising dinner in the Space Needle."
"Good. Simon, although it's really not my place to get involved on either side, I've helped Mr. Thrillkiller meet up with Mr. Parker to cut a song."
"Wolf is very interested," Parker said. "We see this as an opportunity for Anachros to get involved in the time protection movement, a cause which deeply moves us. The band doesn’t forget where they came from."
Simon's stare made Parker fidget. "I will write the lyrics," Simon said, as casual as if he were ordering lunch.
Parker laughed nervously. "Simon, this is a professional production," he said, dripping condescension. “You don't have any experience."
"It will be a blues song. Also, as I've told Mr. Thrillkiller, I want to reserve the right to direct my own defense before LEX."
Rosethrush leaned forward. "You're right to take an active interest in your defense, Simon. But you are unfamiliar with how our legal system works."
"We've got Diane Ontiveros, one of the best advocates in the business, as your lawyer," Thrillkiller said. "She's won three Darrows for best performance defending a capital case."
"Nevertheless, I will arrange a statement."
"What kind of statement?"
"Things that must be said in my behalf."
"We'll need to see it," Rosethrush said.
"You have to be honest with your lawyer, Simon," Thrillkiller said. "It's her job to lie afterward."
"I have taken God's instruction on this. If I am to be judged, it must be on God's terms."
Rosethrush had met many historicals who acted as out of their natural place as Simon, but none who at the same time seemed so aware of it and not overwhelmed by that fact. He was disarming. None of this communicated itself in the media appearances he'd made. It was too bad, for his own sake, that Simon could not meet the public en masse, in person.
Thrillkiller jumped in. "You don't understand, Simon, these things have to be carefully orchestrated. Every element of a PR-influenced trial must be thought out. In a single minute at the trial, you could undo all the hard work we've done."
Simon ignored Thrillkiller and addressed Rosethrush. "I understand you are interested in increasing the audience. Tell them that I am going to present a statement, but no one knows what it will be. This will make more people want to know what will happen, no?"
He had a point.
Parker's wristward beeped. He looked sour. "I've got another appointment. You wrangle this thing out. I'll expect you at the Astoria studio on Monday to meet with the boys," he told Thrillkiller. "Nice to meet you, Simon."
Rosethrush stood up. "Simon, I think we may be able to accommodate you. Meanwhile, why don't you step outside with Mr. Parker and wait in the reception area. Mr. Thrillkiller and I need to discuss some of the legal maneuverings we'll need to make to arrange for your statement."
Simon bowed his head. He stood and followed Parker out. As soon as the door closed, Lance spoke up. "I'm sorry about that, Mrs. Vannice. He's got a mind of his own, it's been hard for me to ride herd on him. Why did you ask me to bring him here in the first place?"
"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."