Corrupting Dr. Nice

by John Kessel

  Suede winked a bright blue eye. "Trying to dodge the pixmen, Owen?"

  "As much as possible," Owen said.

  "I don't think they're dodgeable. Your nuptials remind me a little of the wedding of King Charles to his first wife, eighty years ago. They had old-style video of everything except the examination to prove the bride was a virgin. Of course, pix was in its infancy then." Uncle Suede touched the spex lying on the table. On their twin screens Owen made out the tiny face of Aron Bliss, one of Rosethrush's posthuman media flacks. Over Bliss's face scrolled the tiny words of today's pretrial promo: "Does Jesus Save?"

  "Just look at this Simon trial," Suede said.

  "I don't have to look at it, Uncle. I was a part of it."

  "Yes. I just watched the scene where you left the studio again. Do you think those breasts were genuine?"

  Owen thought of Emma. "One can only speculate."

  "I'll tell you what I hope. I hope they nail this zealot. Not that I have anything against him personally. I like his clothes. I'm thinking of growing a beard. What do you think?" He lifted his chin to show Owen his profile.

  "I was trying to help him out," Owen said.

  "Thank God you're incompetent. These historicals can't take care of themselves, they expect us to take care of them. That's why God built prisons." Uncle Suede dug into his ham and eggs.

  Owen stared at the cereal in his bowl. Emma's reaction to his bungled testimony had been miraculously understanding. She gave him every credit for trying to do the right thing. "It showed completely," she said, "the kind of man you are."

  =Nothing is more enjoyable than watching the privileged classes enjoying their privileges,= Bill said.

  "Uncle Suede didn't mean to hurt my feelings," Owen subvocalized. "He's harmless."

  =The very rich are different from you and me. They have more excuses.=

  "What do you mean?'

  =That man has never taken responsibility for anything in his entire life. Crablice have more social conscience.=

  "Where did you learn to talk like that?"

  =The update gave me a new heuristic subroutine.=

  "Well, you've never criticized my family before. Stop it."

  =Yassuh, boss.=

  After breakfast Owen excused himself and went back to his room to get ready for the ceremony. Jeeves helped him on with the wedding suit. Owen's father came in and gave him some advice on the honeymoon. "If I have one word to say, it's this, son: steak. The rarer the better."

  Rosethrush came in to inspect him. She had chosen the tux. On the one hand Owen’s mother wanted to control every aspect of the ceremony; on the other she was so caught up in the progress of the Zealot trial she could not pay good attention to details. The dramatic surprises of the closing arguments had boosted her interest to the point where she wanted to postpone the wedding. Owen refused. But the publicity, she protested! A thing like this needed handling. It didn’t matter, Owen said. If she wanted a wedding, it would have to go as planned; if she didn’t it was fine with him and Emma--they would elope.

  For the first time in his life, Owen prevailed on something.

  After they took their shots at him, Owen's parents retreated downstairs. He chased Jeeves away too. Then he dawdled in his room, picked up the plastic titanosaur he had played with as a child, ran his hand over the poster-sized photograph of the bright green and orange allosaurus that Wilhelm had brought back from the first visit to the Jurassic. He paged through the text of the Wheeler paper, then turned it off. His boyhood was over now.

  At the top of the stairs he hesitated, his mind filled with images of Emma. The curve of her calf, the soft indentation of her upper chest between her breasts, the light down of fair hair on her forearm catching the sunlight, the curve of her lower lip in profile, her white teeth, her hair brushing her cheek.

  He went down to the entrance hall. The house was strangely silent. The hardwood floors gleamed. The flowers on the side tables inundated the room in sweet scent. No one was there. In the south gallery the gifts were piled in high profusion. No one was there, either. The ceremony was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes. He looked out the window to the pavilion, and saw only the serving staff. He wandered through the first floor, looking for the guests.

  Finally he found them in the den, lounging, standing, sitting on the arms of chairs--all watching the screen on the wall.

  "What's going on?"

  "LEX is going to announce its verdict."

  #

  Gen was upstairs in the room they had given her, supposedly getting dressed. She sat on the chair before the vanity, veil in hand. She had sent the ladies' maid out for help, and instead, like 400 million other citizens, had the Simon the Zealot trial running on a window in the mirror.

  Yeshu's courtroom appeal had been one of the most effective arguments for jury nullification that Gen had ever heard. It was an argument that would work as well for a murderer as an innocent. She hoped, when the boot of the law finally came down on her some day, she had a lawyer that shameless.

  The bombshell that Ben Simeon was Simon’s son only sweetened the sale. Net heads across the wired world, and by remote from Mars and the moon, voted their glands. The PR meters swung into the green.

  But LEX had taken a long time in his deliberations. The wirehacks filled the screens with gas. Who was really behind the Yeshu appearance? Did Simon have grounds for a countersuit regarding exploitation of his son?

  The host of the analysis, a way posthuman named Aron Bliss, displayed his lethal cheekbones as he speculated. "Did Saltimbanque have Lincoln killed for effect? There has been no official autopsy on the dead historical. Lincoln was only appointed head of the company's Moral Spokespersonship a month before his appearance at the trial. And sources have said that he was merely a figurehead for advanced corporate superintelligences. What do you think, Hiroko?"

  "I think as little as possible, Aron. But I do know that the readings on the trial were disappointing up until that last day in the courtroom. First we have the comic interlude with Dr. Owen Vannice. The prime hostage double-crosses the plaintiff's lawyers and attempts to support Simon. Then the double-barreled surprises of Lincoln and Yeshu." She raised one perfectly painted eyebrow. "It couldn't have worked out better for Vannicom if it had all been orchestrated, could it?"

  Bliss assumed his full moral stature--he was over two meters tall. "One thing we do know, Hiroko, this media appearance certainly has brought Yeshu back from the dead. The bandit leader, the messianic claimant, the millennial prophet, the protester, the magician, in all his lethal charisma! Vannicom CEO Rosethrush Vannice, biomother of Dr. Owen Vannice, had this to say about . . . just a minute, Hiro. Central tells me that LEX has returned with a verdict! Let's go back to the courtroom immediately!"

  The VR image zipped Bliss and his partner into the third row of the courtroom set. The lawyers were hastily resuming their positions. Behind the defense table, Yeshu sat with Simon and Diane Ontiveros.

  The judge's door opened. LEX stepped out to return to the bench, no longer a carrion bird but a resplendent bird of paradise. The virtual representation of the contractually agreed upon legal entity looked over the room, and at last, spoke.

  "We find the defendant, Simon the Zealot, Guilty, but Innocent!" LEX sang. “Culpable! But free as me, as a big beautiful bird!” It held up its iridescent-feathered hand, palm open, high above the crowd. "Peace be with you."

  Yeshu held up his own hand. "And also with you."

  A hundred reporters fired off their acquittal leads. Simon, weeping, fell to his knees before his cousin. Yeshu took him by the shoulders and made him rise. It was great video.

  Over the image of the boisterous courtroom, Aron Bliss's voice spoke. "There you have it, folks. The verdict 'Guilty, but Innocent,' means that the defendant has been found guilty of the crime he is charged with, but that due to extenuating circumstances, malfeasance by the arresting authorities, extreme popularity--whatever--his guilt doesn't matter. Hiroko, in th
is case, what do you guess the reason--"

  Gen flicked off the screen. What a coup! She had nothing but admiration for Simon. When had he contacted Yeshu? If Lance had known anything about it, he hadn't let on to her. No, it had to be Simon's own plan, and it revealed an understanding of the politics of his situation that was stunning for a man raised in the first century. Back in Jerusalem he had seemed overwhelmed by the time travelers. How had he managed to vector in on the weaknesses of the 21st century legal system? Clearly she had underestimated him.

  And Owen? Despite the fact that she had mocked Owen's attempt to help Simon, there was something remarkable about it. Owen came from a class of people who would not spend a second worrying about fairness to a historical, let alone a terrorist who had held him hostage. Even if his testimony was wrongheaded, it reminded her of the goofy innocent she had fallen for back in Jerusalem.

  The maid returned with a helper and a paper of pins. "We need to hurry," she said. "People are gathering on the lawn!"

  "I bet they're watching the trial."

  "Well, maybe. But you need to get ready."

  Gen let them fuss over her, and within minutes she was set, trussed up like a Christmas goose and twice as appetizing. She had to admire her figure in the full length mirror. When he got a look at her, Owen would faint from loss of blood.

  She was not disappointed. From the moment she stepped up the aisle below the pavilion awning, Owen was fisheyed with lust. A surge of anger blew away her misgivings. As he took her hand and they stood before the ancient minister, out of the corner of her eye she noted a face full of pride of ownership and fatuous self importance.

  Soon enough it was over. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

  Gen turned her face up to Owen. He closed his eyes and bent to her. She glided to the right, and his lips missed hers. He drew back. "Excuse me," he said.

  "Certainly," she said. She let him kiss her. Beneath his starched shirt, she could feel him tremble. She ran her hand inside his coat, pressed it against his breast, felt his heart thumping. She pulled back, smiled at the minister. She took Owen's hand and they ran laughing back down the aisle.

  Then a whirlwind reception, flocks of photographs, hordes of relatives, magnums of champagne, more awkward dancing, the overly sweet cake, the change of clothes, the limo to the airport, the evening flight on the private plane to Palm Beach.

  As they were getting off the plane in the Palm Beach terminal, a man rushed up to them. "Mrs. Vannice," he said. "I have an urgent message for you."

  Owen looked puzzled. Gen went to a private booth, turned on the security. The screen lit up. It was August.

  "Father!"

  "How was the wedding?"

  "Elaborate."

  "I wish I could have been there. When the minister got to that part about 'if there is anybody here who knows a reason why these two should not be wed ....' I would have brought the thing to a dead halt."

  "That would have been fun," Gen said wistfully.

  August was quiet for a moment. "Look, Genevieve, I've never tried to control you. But for the life of me I cannot imagine why you went and married a man you despise. You do despise him, don't you?"

  "More than ever."

  "Then what is this all about?"

  "Don't worry dad. It will come clear real soon now."

  "But you're going on your honeymoon!"

  "It will be more fun than Owen imagines."

  "Listen, I've arranged for a car. It's waiting outside the airport right now. If you hang up this call, turn around and walk out of that place right now, you'll never regret it."

  "I won't regret anything. You'll see."

  August looked sad. "Pretty hard on a father to have his only daughter marry and not be there." He mused for a moment. "You're not going to kill him, are you?"

  "No, dad. Don't worry."

  "I mean, I wouldn't object, but I could help you with the details..."

  "Nobody's getting killed. It'll be more fun my way. Trust me."

  "You know I do."

  "I've got to go. Dr. Nice is champing at the bit."

  "Goodbye, Genevieve. I love you."

  "I love you too, Dad." She hung up.

  Owen was waiting at the exit where the limo waited. When he saw her his face broke into a grin. "You mustn't be late. We'll have to learn to do these things on time."

  "I do everything on time," Gen said. He held open the car door, and as she passed him to get in she brushed his forearm. She imagined she could hear his blood race. In the back of the limo, he tentatively put his hand on her leg.

  "Look at this scenery!" she said, as the car glided through the twilight to the villa. She took his hand in hers, gently removing it from her thigh. "I'm so happy, Owen."

  The villa was two-story stucco with a red tile roof, elaborate garden, a private pool. The lamps were lit when they arrived, with the first stars coming out overhead and Venus bright in the west. The driver set out their bags in the bedroom and discreetly left. A flood of white lilies spilled over the cherry credenza. The bed was the size of Wyoming. Once they were alone, Gen retired to the bath to change.

  She slipped into her negligee, doused herself with perfume, and went back to the bedroom. Owen, wearing his dressing gown, had laid himself out on the bed like a buffet.

  "Darling," he said, reaching out to her. "I have a surprise for you."

  She took his hands, pulled herself down to him. "A surprise?"

  "You'll see it soon enough. I came down here myself, a week ago, to do it."

  She could only imagine, and she didn't want to. They lay together. As she had many times before, she played the part. The badger game. In his lust Owen was no different from Sloane.

  Hadn't she given up that con? What was in it for her?

  She reminded herself: this was Emma Zume in bed with Owen, not Genevieve Faison. She undid his robe and ran her hand up the inside of his thigh. She kissed him, long, passionately, and they twined together on the bed. The wind rustled the trees outside their opened window. Owen moaned; she felt his feverish brow on her cheek. She ran her hand through his hair, then pulled away. "That's enough," she said. "I hope you have a pleasant dream. I know I will."

  Owen smiled at her, befuddled, breathing heavily. "Darling?"

  "I asked the servants to put a blanket and pillow for you out on the sofa."

  For a moment it did not register. Then his face fell as if he'd been ejected out an escape hatch. "But I thought..."

  She took his hands in both of hers, and held them between her knees. Owen turned green. "We're off to a wonderful start. Why risk it by sharing the bed? Perhaps after two or three years, once we've come to understand one another."

  "But Emma! For weeks I've done nothing else but think of you."

  "And I of you."

  "I thought you loved me."

  "Can you doubt it? I married you, didn't I?"

  "But now we're husband and wife!"

  "Yes. Isn't it delicious? There is absolutely no legal or practical reason why we shouldn't make love all night, and half the day. But we won't. Think of the frustration, the longing, the passionate embraces we'll build up in our minds. The elaborate fantasies, the temptation to stray, the evasions, the sublimation! You'll throw yourself into your work. Our careers will soar on the strength of our unfulfilled sexuality. Every morning you'll struggle to teach your classes through a haze of desire. Every night I'll close my bedroom door thinking of your embrace. How wonderful, I'll imagine, it would be to run my hand down the small of your back. It makes me tremble just to say it."

  "But Emma--"

  "Why throw all that away just for a moment of lust? A moment not likely half as fulfilling as the ecstasies of anticipation we will put ourselves through over the years. Why, who knows? Perhaps, if we love each other enough, if we create enough of a spark between us, guard it from the winds of indifference until it becomes a roaring bonfire of passion--perhaps we
'll never have to sleep together!"

  "I'm not sure, in the long run, I'd like that."

  "But it's what makes our relationship so special! Think of it another way, if you prefer: there is no place for entangling sexual expectations between us. I remember how you described it, 'A marriage of minds, not just bodies.' That's when I knew I would marry you.'"

  "Yes, I remember, but--"

  "But what?"

  "Well, I . . ."

  "You can't think this is sudden. I told you the first time we ever spoke that I was a sexual deliberationist. Did you forget?"

  "No. But I thought--"

  "What did you think?" She felt herself really angry. She was Emma Zume, not Genevieve Faison, and this man had misjudged her.

  Owen looked at her in dismay. He stood, fumbled with the belt of his robe, pulled it savagely tight. Jerking like a puppet, he rummaged in his overnight bag and pulled out his laptop. "I guess I'm going to have some time to work on this paper."

  He closed the bedroom door behind him and left her alone.

  And that was that. Gen lay back on the bed. From the other room she heard the faint sound of Owen making up the sofa. She lay there for some time, mind blank, watching the ceiling fan slowly revolve. Finally she turned out the light.

  The ceiling was decorated with a spray of phosphorescent stars, hundreds of them, large and small, an entire milky way. Across the center a constellation spelled out, "Emma's Galaxy."

  ELEVEN: THE PALM BEACH STORY

  Owen woke up with a crick in his neck that would not go away. He groaned out of the sofa and into the bedroom. Emma was not there. He avoided looking at the disordered bedclothes. While taking a shower he muttered to himself, "What a fool. What was I thinking of?"

  =You were thinking about getting laid.=

  Owen didn't say anything.

  =What I can't figure out is why she's holding out on you. Please trust your naked poetry to eat women. Maybe she's really a man.=