Corrupting Dr. Nice

by John Kessel

  "Maybe you're a figment of my imagination."

  Owen's hand jerked up and slapped him in the face.

  =Was that a figment of your imagination?=

  Owen gained control of his hand, rubbed his stinging cheek. "You're not supposed to do things like that."

  =My value inheres in my ability to do the unexpected.=

  Owen turned off the water and got out of the shower. Angrily, he began to towel himself dry. "I fail to see the advantage of you slapping me with my own hand."

  =What is the sound of one hand slapping?"

  "Ho." Owen pulled on his robe. He didn't even have a body of his own.

  =I'm just a machine interface, Owen. But I have to say recent events have made me question whether I can take care of you.=

  "Good. I'll take care of myself."

  =You're a naked obsessive dysfunctional free details man.=

  "I'm not naked anymore."

  Well, self pity would get him nowhere. He wandered through the villa, out to the patio. The day could not have been brighter or the air more fragrant had it been ordered from a catalog. He found Emma at the breakfast table, fairly glowing. She had gotten some invisible staff person to prepare breakfast for them. The stunning white tablecloth was laden with covered serving dishes, toast, jam, a floral centerpiece of sun-bright yellow mums. The coffee smelled beautiful. Emma's violet eyes drew him down to sit beside her. Owen's annoyance subsided.

  "Last night was wonderful," she said. "I never knew it could be like that."

  "'It?'"

  "Our conversation."

  "Sure," Owen grumbled. He found he was ravenous. He lifted the lids on the various serving plates, spooned out some scrambled eggs, selected a croissant and a breakfast steak. The smell of the steak made his mouth water, and he dug in.

  After a while he felt a little better. "You know," he said, "I think it was a good idea not to rush into the sexual part of our marriage. There's more to sex than sexual intercourse."

  "I'm so glad you see it my way."

  "Of course, when we decide to have children, that will be different."

  "It doesn't have to."

  "I mean, not that I would let them influence my decision, but my parents are eager to see some grandchildren. They've been after me about it for years."

  "Don't worry. They're having grandchildren as we speak."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your mother explained how you refused to do anything about fathering a child. It was one of the things that proved to me you were a man of principle. She even told me that woman at the college dance was trying to trick you into providing a sperm sample."

  "I see."

  "I told them how they might get one more easily, and they did. They're preparing a child in an artificial womb."

  It took a moment before he caught on to what she was saying. "They took a sperm sample? How? When?"

  "I believe they had your AIdvisor produce it while you were asleep."

  Owen swallowed. "Bill?"

  =It was a delicate operation.=

  "I'll bet," Owen subvocalized.

  =It's not as if you hadn't shown me how.=

  Owen turned on Emma. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  Emma looked innocent as a flower. "It really was a matter between you and them. It's embarrassing. And I knew we weren't going to have children the normal way."

  =Looks like we may have opportunity to collect further samples.=

  Owen sighed. At least his parents would leave him alone about grandchildren, now.

  "Darling, I'll forgive you this time, but in the future you're not to interfere in my affairs without my permission. I may be a liberal, but I draw the line at the exploitation of my own body."

  Emma lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, Owen."

  Her forlorn look mollified him a little. He took another piece of the steak. Animal protein, in massive quantities. His father would be proud of him. He tried to make conversation. "This steak is excellent. Thanks for ordering it."

  Emma smiled. "Your father says it tastes like iguana. It's infant dinosaur."

  Owen stopped chewing. He put down his fork. "Emma, that's not funny."

  "It's no joke. Grilled Wilma, courtesy of Ralph Siddhartha Vannice."

  "That's absurd! I checked Wilma through telepresence not twenty-four hours ago. She's in the campus ecologarium."

  "Don't worry, Wilma hasn't been harmed. Your father had her cloned."

  "Cloned? How? When did he get to her?"

  "You did that, too."

  "I did it?"

  "Yes. While you were asleep. She wouldn't sit still for any of his agents, so your father had Bill sample some tissues for cloning. He told me at the wedding reception."

  "Bill!" Owen said.

  =It was none of my doing.=

  "None of your doing! Whose was it, then?"

  =Well, according to that trial summation the other day, that's sort of a metaphysical question.=

  Owen balled up his napkin and threw it into his plate. "Emma--you're against exploiting the past! How can you countenance this!"

  "Wilma is no longer part of the past."

  "But she's is a unique specimen."

  "Wilma is an extinct creature yanked out of her proper era. But as far as cloning her for meat, that has human benefit. Wilma hasn't been affected one iota; you could take her back tomorrow."

  "But you objected to my taking her in the first place."

  "That's right. And I still do. Either Wilma should be returned to the past, or disposed of. Tampering with time is an abomination. It's an uncompromising principle with me. Didn't I make that clear from the start?"

  "Of course. So why would you allow anyone to clone her?"

  "I'm against interfering with the past, not cloning." Calmly, she took another bite of the filet.

  Owen tried to get his mind around the discoveries he was making. Was he being unfair? But she had told him . . . he had assumed . . . "My father is an exotiphagist?"

  "He's the president of the New England chapter. Don't tell me you didn't know. He's planning a series of restaurants. Dinoburgers, dinogyros, dino salad."

  He should have known. That was the worst of it. But who was this woman? "How could you lie to me?"

  "I never lied to you."

  "The Committee to Protect the Past? How can you reconcile this with your work?"

  Finally she got mad. "Must I take your definition of my work? My actions are quite consistent with my ideals. You're the one who seems to bend your principles to the occasion." She caught her breath in a little sob. "I thought you were better than that. I must say, Owen, this is a considerable disillusionment for a girl to get on her honeymoon."

  "Emma, how could you trick me like this?"

  She wiped her eyes. "Trick you? Who tricked who?"

  A bright yellow canary landed in the bush beside the patio, rattling the leaves in a flutter of wings. Owen thought of the bird's ancestors, a hundred million years before, in the woods outside Vannice Station. He felt bitterly used.

  "I don't know who tricked who. But if you mean what you say, you're being inhumane. You can't keep the past inviolate. To try to do so is to create some sort of false virginity, like your sexual deliberation. Once you lose your innocence, you can't get it back. It's not so awful a loss anyway."

  "So then you rape the past, now that it's not a virgin. You use it like a whore?"

  "You're going to extremes," Owen said. He struggled to articulate what he felt. "It's--it's not that clear cut. There's a lot of ground between virginity and rape. You can relate to the past like a lover, a spouse, a friend. You have a relationship with it."

  "The Saltimbanque corporation will love that line of reasoning, Owen. They can use it in their PR."

  "You can make me look foolish. Make me? What am I saying--I am a fool! What I'm saying isn't consistent, I know. But you delude yourself if you think right and wrong's so easy. You ought not to act like some innocent, Emma, when you're not."

 
She stared at him as if seeing him anew. "You think I'm not innocent?"

  "You probably are. Too damned innocent."

  "You're the one who was looking for somebody pure."

  "I was. I was wrong."

  "If you want some floozy, there are plenty in the world. More's the pity."

  "Most bad people aren't nearly as bad as they seem to be. Most good ones aren't as good. Neither am I." Owen got up from the table. Emma looked up at him, as beautiful as the first moment he'd seen her at Thornberry. But it wasn't her he really loved.

  Trying not to look like an ass, he strode back into the house, through the bedroom, into the bath. He sat there, his head in his hands, and thought about that last breakfast he'd had with Genevieve, on the terrace at the Herod's Palace. He hadn't gotten to finish anything that time, either.

  After a moment Bill spoke. =You were very eloquent there, boss. A little pompous, though.=

  "Thanks."

  =I don't want you to feel any worse than you do, but it seems to me your sexual frustration is driving this. But you won't admit it.=

  "You're getting mighty damned psychiatric lately."

  =Never trust men who eat the bed of god. Just tell me this. How did you go from your father betraying you to a lecture on the morality of time travel? Doesn't that seem like an odd way to react to what she said? Wouldn't it be better if you just went back there and told her she hurt you?=

  "I'd rather get divorced."

  =You could do that, too,= Bill said. His voice sounded almost concerned. =Divorce is an ancient institution. But I suppose marriage is a few weeks older.=

  TWELVE: WHAT KIND OF BLUES

  Lance Thrillkiller grabbed Simon's shoulder and pulled him away from the phalanx of shouting reporters. Brushing away a hovering camera, he pushed them through the glass doors to the time travel stage. Yeshu, behind them, remained an extra minute to speak with the press. After the madness of the last few days, it was a relief to be in a quiet room away from masses of strangers.

  "I don't know why I got myself mixed up in all this," Lance muttered.

  "For the money," Simon said. He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder, which contained some books, some music, and his olivewood box. At the time travel control board Simon spotted Serge Halam talking to the technician.

  "I like money, sure," Lance said. "I also like a little lower profile."

  "Get used to publicity," said Yeshu, entering. "We are only beginning."

  Lance looked uncomfortable.

  Halam came over to them from the board.

  "There'll be another press conference at the other end. They've arranged to hold it in the atrium at the Herod's Palace."

  It had been borne in upon Simon over the last weeks that press conferences were going to be a fact of life from now on. Since the trial, his fame had doubled. "A HISTORICAL REVOLUTION!" the tabloids shouted. Pixmen recapped the raid on the Herod's Palace, put viewers in the courtroom for Yeshu's summation, replayed the toppling of Abraham Lincoln from every angle, speculated over the possibility that the upcoming trials of the other conspirators might be called off, treated the curious to a tour of Yeshu's retreat in Costa Rica, gave viewer reaction to the trial and speculation about its aftermath, offered call-in numbers of Simon and Yeshu's nascent political organization. Both younger versions of Jesus had called off personal appearance tours to offer support to their older self.

  Simon had become, if not the most famous historical ever brought into the present, then the most politically significant. In first century Jerusalem, his picture was plastered on every building. Herod had retreated to Galilee, unable to show his face in the city. Mass rallies pressed for a new Sanhedrin, led by Simon, to assume the political rule of the city. While Simon went back to Jerusalem, Yeshu would negotiate with Saltimbanque Corporation representatives in the present.

  Repercussions were echoing up and down the settled moment universes. In the 18th century, radicals led by Paine and Danton had taken control of Paris. Across the 2062 net, a new debate raged over the practical effects of time intervention. The movement had its unexpected consequences: the Committee to Protect the Past had been raised into a position where it was forced by circumstance to play it straight. Lance was not happy.

  Simon was not sure how he felt about all this. Before the hotel raid he had thought his life worthless, and had been willing to throw it away. The fight against the time travelers had seemed a simple thing. Now he could have an effect, but he was no longer the narrow zealot he had been.

  Yet he was glad to be going back home, where he could once again see the sunlight on the Temple and hear the sound of voices speaking his own tongue. Why did he feel so sad?

  Halam led Simon onto the stage. Yeshu embraced him. His eyes were moist. "Goodbye, cousin. You will see me soon."

  "Once again, you have saved me," Simon said.

  "Your need brought me out of my retreat," Yeshu said. "You reminded me what I am for. All of the me's." He smiled.

  Yeshu went back to stand beside Lance. Halam nodded to the technician, who touched his controls. Across the room, Yeshu waved goodbye.

  The room fell away, Simon's stomach lurched, the space swam about them, and a moment later the Gödel stage at the Herod's Palace rushed forward to surround them. Simon swayed for a moment, then got his balance. A group of historicals came forward to greet them. How strange it was to see these people in the clothing and beards of his own time. But he guessed that it would never completely be his own time again. Never the place it had been when he was a boy.

  As the men approached, Simon whispered to Halam. "I remember when you told me, back in the Hippodrome, that no matter whether the revolt succeeded, the people from the future will be here. I thought nothing could be worse. Now I know that, no matter what you do, we will be here, too."

  From among those coming to greet them stepped a tall young man in twenty-first century clothes, with curly black hair. It took a moment for Simon to recognize him. "Samuel?"

  "Father."

  #

  Genevieve paid the cab and got out at Broadway and Fifth Avenue. She expected she had lost him crossing the bridge. She hurried into the Flatiron Building, but got snarled up in security.

  They checked her bag, examined her fake ID, ran an MRI to assure themselves that she contained no explosives. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

  "I'm Mrs. Owen Beresford Vannice! I'm here to meet with my husband."

  The security flak checked his screen. "You're not listed as a party to this meeting."

  "Call up. They'll want me there."

  In private mode, the man called up to Rosethrush's office. After a moment he turned back to Genevieve. "All right. That's the top floor. The elevators are--"

  "I see them." Gen took her purse and hurried to the elevator bank. She wanted this over before August could stop her.

  It had been two weeks since the honeymoon. Four days after Owen had left their breakfast table and flown back to Connecticut, the call came from his lawyers.

  Genevieve had spent those days discovering things. She could still see him walking away from the table, the belt of his robe jerked tight, despair in the set of his shoulders. The joy of her revenge had lasted only a moment, followed by a queer blankness. Her mind replayed the details of her triumph: first Owen's smug assurance, his pathetic attempts to conceal his desire, the way he protested as she dropped each of her bombshells, his sudden turn to arguing the opposite side of interference with the past.

  It had not been hard for her to play Emma Zume's anger. Her offended propriety. Even the tears.

  But after Owen was gone, instead of elation, Gen felt sadness. She had dished out to Owen exactly what he deserved, but balancing the equation had brought her no relief. She was angry, disappointed, frustrated, and worse still, unhappy with herself.

  The phone call crystallized her feelings. He was having his lawyers deal with her? She felt blind rage. Did he actually imagine he didn't love her? Did he think if
he got an annulment it would be over and done with? She knew him better than that, and it dismayed her that, after all this, he didn't know himself any better. Or was there some part of him she did not know, something he was keeping inside that he could not tell her?

  The elevator doors opened on the top floor. There stood August, waiting for her. He pulled her aside.

  "How did you get here ahead of me?" she asked.

  "Never try to outhustle a New Yorker in New York, daughter."

  She looked past him to the glass-fronted reception area of Vannicom Ltd. "Let me go."

  "I will. But first I would like to know exactly what you are doing."

  "I'm going to talk to him."

  "Just talk?"

  "They checked me at the door. No weapons."

  "A pity. But why? You know I was against this marriage, but now that you've gone through with it I wish you'd understand that you're sitting in the catbird's seat. He wants an annulment. He has no grounds for one. In such a situation you can hold out for a virtually unlimited amount of money."

  "I'm not interested in money."

  "Bite your tongue."

  "I'm not going to ask for anything. I'm going to tell him who I am. If he can look me in the eye, as Genevieve Faison, and tell me he doesn't love me, then he can have his precious annulment." She pulled away from him and pushed open the heavy glass door to the office. August trailed behind.

  A pleasant young woman looked up from her desk.

  "I'm here to meet with Mr. Vannice and his lawyers," Gen said.

  "They're in the office. I'll let them know you're here."

  "Don't bother."

  "She's a determined woman," August explained.

  Gen glided past the desk and through the dark wood door to Rosethrush Vannice's office. Behind a big desk sat Rosethrush, wearing a trim business suit. Ralph Vannice, smoking a cigar, was looking over some papers with a sharklike man in an expensive suit, whom Gen recognized as Owen's lawyer Derek Choi.

  "Where's Owen?" she asked.

  Rosethrush stood up. "He left. When Ralph let slip that you were coming, it was as if he had rockets in his shoes."

  Choi spoke up. "I don't think it's a good idea to tell this to her now. We have some negotiations to get through first."