by John Kessel
"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?
"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 pre
parations, 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.