Corrupting Dr. Nice

by John Kessel

  While Owen tore off his Roman armor, Gruber bent over the portable time travel unit, detached the cable, wound it around his forearm and stowed it in the case. The portable looked like a medium-quality overnight bag. "I've got half an hour to get this unit back uptime before anyone misses it."

  "I'll drive," Owen said. He helped Alma into the jeep, took a moment to fasten her seat belt. "This will seem strange," Owen said. We are going to move very fast."

  "Let's go!" Gruber said.

  Owen started the engine and jolted them over the rough ground to the road. He sped past the construction area, dodging orange detour cones toward the city gate. Alma clutched the sides of her seat, white-faced.

  "You drive like a maniac!" Gruber said.

  "You're the one who's in a hurry."

  They shot through the gate without slowing and down a network of narrow streets toward the hotel. "Try not to get us caught with her," Gruber said. "You don't realize, retrieving the dead is seriously illegal. It's not just fraternizing with a historical you're talking about here."

  Owen took his eyes off the street and looked over his shoulder into Gruber's spex. "I know you've got those things recording," he shouted. "So record this: I'm responsible. I forced you into this scheme. I did the snatching."

  He turned back in time to screech to a halt behind a parked vegetable truck at an open-air market.

  Gruber lurched forward. He touched the temple of the spex. "I don't think that's going to do us any good if we get caught. Money's the antidote."

  "I gave you most of what I had," Owen said. "My father and I aren't talking, and my mother cut me off."

  "Marvelous," Gruber said. "I think I'll get out here." He took the bag and hopped out of the jeep. "Look, I'll get this back without anyone finding out, but can you keep your mouth shut?"

  "My word is my bond," Owen said.

  Gruber smiled grimly, shook his head and hurried off down the street.

  =Looks like you've made a friend,= Bill said.

  Alma was looking around in a daze, watching the men unload crates of oranges from the truck, a dealer selling glittering wristwards and music boxes, people in both traditional and outlandish clothes swarming the market.

  When Owen touched her shoulder she started. "I know you are frightened," he said in Aramaic. "But I did not lie to you. We can go to see Simon, now."

  He backed up the jeep and jammed it in the narrow space between two buildings. He took her hand and helped her down. They walked through the market and into the streets.

  At the stone house in the Upper City that served as the headquarters for Simon’s political movement, he introduced himself as Dr. Vannice. They searched him for weapons.

  “What is your business here?”

  “Simon will want to see this woman.”

  “Who is she?”

  “He will know her.”

  They discussed the matter among themselves. Alma gazed guardedly around the room, her eyes hesitating on every unfamiliar object. But she held her chin high. One of the men retreated, then returned and led them to the back.

  Simon sat before a portable computer on a table on which were scattered a number of papers, speaking Greek with a dark man in a 21st century suit. He recognized Owen, and switched to English. “Dr. Vannice. I’m surprised you would bother to---” When he saw Alma, his face froze.

  "Alma," he said. He stood and came around the table.

  Alma moved toward him, reached out, touched his face. "You are older. Your beard is gray." She blinked her eyes rapidly, let herself rest her head on his shoulder. Simon embraced her. "I saw you dead," she said. "Not three hours ago."

  "I'm not dead," Simon said. "I must be dreaming."

  He looked at Owen over Alma's head. “How is this possible?”

  “You'll figure it out. I’d rather not go into the details. I only ask that you keep her identity secret, at least for a while. Help her to adjust."

  Simon closed his eyes, lowered his chin to Alma's hair, and held her tightly. The man Simon had been speaking with stared at them, then at Owen. Owen took his arm and led him from the room. The man turned animatedly to the others in the front.

  As Owen left the building, Bill whispered, "Free Men Always Trust Naked Screaming Bed Poetry!"

  “Amen,” Owen said. For the first time in a very long time he felt relaxed.

  =You handled that pretty well, considering, Boss. I still think you're crazy. It goes against all my programming to let you do this stuff.=

  "Just remember who's in charge. If I have you removed, you're twenty years out of date. Nobody's going to want to purchase an archaic personality platform. Especially one who rants about naked screaming bed poetry."

  =What are you talking about?=

  "Never mind."

  =What I can't figure out is, why did you do all this? If anyone ever investigates Alma's reappearance, you're in trouble. It's a joke.=

  Owen couldn't explain it to Bill. He hardly understood it himself. Life was a series of jokes on people like Owen, undermining their seriousness, their need for certainty about what was right and wrong, about who was in and who was out. That was the point. Simon, the epitome of the outsider, was now in. Owen, the billionaire, was out. Owen had done something for someone who had nothing to do with him, an act for which he would get no recognition. It was the only thing he'd ever done in his life completely without self interest.

  =You can't even guarantee they'll get along. He's ten years older. He's had time to get used to the changes. She from another universe. She's never seen the son they had. It's too long odds . . .=

  "Tell me about long odds between women and men, Bill."

  As he wandered back to the Herod’s Palace, Owen planned his evening. First he needed to check up on Wilma in her special quarters in the hotel warehouse. Then a big dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, the last decent food he was likely to have for some time. Tomorrow morning he’d retrieve Wilma and take her back to the Cretaceous. He would spend a few weeks there trying to figure out what to make of the shambles that his life had become. He had rushed into the marriage so quickly, so sure of himself. Now he was sure of nothing. Could he bring himself to go back and face Emma Zume again? What could he possibly say to her: that he had made a mistake? That she was not the woman he had imagined her to be?

  Already the advent of Simon’s political movement had changed the feel of the Jerusalem streets. The historicals walked along with more confidence. The broad plaza outside the hotel was busy with vendors, rubberneckers, political speechmakers with rags of listeners. As he wove his way through the people Owen came upon Dr. David Dunkenfield in ebullient negotiation with a man in a safari jacket. Dunkenfield glanced up, saw Owen, and did a double take.

  “Owen? Owen Vannice!” Dunkenfield’s big voice boomed over the pavements, drawing stares from passersby.

  “Dr. Dunkenfield. What are you doing in Jerusalem?”

  Dunkenfield was holding a primitive bow and a leather pouch that rattled as he gestured. "I'm on leave, here for the conference of the American Astronomical Society. I've got a paper on the Cretaceous dark matter measurements. By the way, boy, I've seen the draft of your paper with this fellow Wheeler on the precocial growth rates. A breakthrough! It's good to see that your time with us wasn't wasted."

  Owen was trying to think of some way he could explain how the only credible scientific research he'd produced in the last year was the result of a traffic violation, when he realized the man Dunkenfield had been talking to was August Faison. August watched Owen impassively.

  Dunkenfield finally slowed long enough to notice the two men eyeing each other.

  "But I haven't introduced you, Owen," Dunkenfield said. "Meet Colonel Harrington, of Cambridge. He’s returning from a private expedition to the fertile crescent human settlements in the Pleistocene." He held out the bow to Owen, spilled the contents of the pouch into his hand. It was a bunch of flint tools. "Look at these remarkable artifacts! Colonel Harrington's force
d to sell these to raise some money for his research. Would it be unethical for me to take advantage of his distress?"

  Owen rolled the flint razor in his hand, examined the bow. He was pretty sure the carvings on the grip had been made with a steel knife. He watched August out of the corner of his eye, then handed the artifacts back to Dunkenfield. "They're worth twice whatever you offered. Charge it to my father, through Vannice Station's account, I'll vouch for you."

  “Wonderful. Did I tell you the new shower came, just as you promised?”

  “Glad to hear it. We must meet for dinner when I get back to Boston.” Owen maneuvered Dunkenfield away, eager to speak with August.

  "I'm afraid I can't pay you right here," Dunkenfield said to August. "Can we meet in the hotel later this evening?"

  "Certainly," August said. "In the bar perhaps, at eight?"

  "Excellent," Dunkenfield looked embarrassed. "I say---would you mind if I held onto these until then? I don't want you to be seduced away by a better offer."

  "I expect I can trust you," August said.

  At last Dunkenfield left.

  “Mr. Faison,” Owen said. "I wouldn’t blame you if you cut me dead, considering the way I treated your daughter last time. But please--give me a moment. I need your advice.”

  "You just did me a favor, Owen. What can I do for you?"

  "Come walk with me. I need to check on Wilma."

  On the way into the hotel and down to the warehouse, Owen told him the whole sad story of his involvement with Emma Zume. “The thing is, I never would have gotten involved with her if I weren’t so taken with Genevieve. I was so much in love, but my stupid pride---”

  They found Wilma pacing back and forth along one wall of the warehouse room, poking her head into the steel rafters at either end. When she saw Owen she snorted and skipped toward them. She lowered her long neck and butted her forehead against Owen's chest, almost knocking him over. Owen scratched the wattles beneath her jaw, continuing to explain himself to August. "Do you think I've made a fatal mistake? Maybe I should I try to understand Emma. But I don't want to. If you would only tell me how I could reach Genevieve, I'd try to explain all this to her. I can't help but think about her, how very much in love we were, how better off I would have been if I hadn't let my ego get in the way. We could have been married by now!"

  August shook his head sagely. "It's been my experience that it is most unwise for people who are very much in love to marry."

  Owen felt a hand on his back. “What do you know about it father?”

  It was Genevieve. She had cut her hair short, and wore dangling jade earrings. She looked a little older, a little more wary than he remembered from the night they had danced. But still beautiful, with a sly knowingness so different from Emma. Owen was overjoyed. “Gen. What a stroke of luck! You can’t know how happy I am to run into you!”

  “Why should I think it’s lucky?”

  “Please don’t be angry. Though you have every right. I just didn’t know. I---”

  She turned to August. "Father, Owen and I are going outside to talk. You take care of Wilma for him."

  “This is mighty irregular, young lady!”

  “Excuse us, Mr. Faison. For now. But let’s have dinner tonight, okay. Please!” Owen took Gen by the hand, pulled her away down the hall to the stairs. "I'm so sorry," he kept repeating as they ran up to the main floor and he dragged her out into the gardens of the palace. It was dusk, and high overhead the stars were coming out. They walked along the pathways beneath the trees and among the fountains, and it was very like the evening of the dance more than a year before.

  Owen found himself rambling on, alternating apology with mad recitation of all that had happened in the last year. He told her about Emma. Except he couldn't make himself tell her that he was married. He'd sneak glances at Gen, find her smiling at him in the enigmatic way that had sent him into a trance the last time they'd walked together down these paths. His anxiety grew with every step.

  "I hope you didn't toy with this woman's feelings, Owen. She doesn't sound like the type who plays games."

  Owen colored. "No, I guess she doesn't"

  "Because if you were entangled with her, I don't see how we could honorably continue this conversation. It wouldn't be right."

  Owen's heart sank. He must have been dreaming to think they could go back to a year ago without any scars. A suicidal chameleon ran across the path in front of them, from flower bed to flower bed, almost beneath Owen's feet. Without thinking, Owen adjusted his stride, avoiding it. "You're right, of course. It wouldn't be honorable."

  Gen sat down on a bench behind a shield of hyacinths. She drew him down beside her. He could smell her perfume. Despite himself, he found himself drawing closer to her.

  "More than that," Owen said, "it wouldn't be right, because of how I treated you."

  She smiled at him, her eyes glowing in the declining light. "I'm not proud of the way I acted, either," she said. She moved closer, her fingers, behind his back, playing with the hair about his ear.

  "I'm committed to Emma, not you. Every canon of our social polity demands that we separate right now--" Owen said.

  "--and never speak to each other again," Gen breathed, resting her head on his shoulder.

  Owen felt so dizzy he thought he might faint. He put his arms around her. His heart raced. "I might as well admit it," he said.

  She turned her face up to his. Her lips were parted; her eyelashes fluttered. "Admit it."

  "I only fell for her because she looked like you. But that doesn't matter, because we can never---"

  She kissed him. It lasted a long time. Not quite as long as the Cretaceous, perhaps, but a good long time.

  At last they drew away, breathless. She was so warm in his arms. "I--I was trying to tell your father," Owen managed. "Some rules just can't be broken. I'm already married."

  "Is that all?" she whispered. She pulled his face down to hers. "So am I, Owen. so am I."

  =Timid men screaming love for a funny price,= Bill murmured in his ear.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I need to thank Bruce Sterling and Lewis Shiner for “Mozart in Mirrorshades,” whose premise was too good not to steal. James Patrick Kelly, Richard Butner, Bruce Sterling, and Gregory Frost for hard readings. Cason Helms, Andy Duncan, Kathryn Locey, Kelly Winters, Steve Grant, and Mark Van Name for SycCity. Paul Park, David Drake, Connie Willis and the participants in the 1995 Sycamore Hill Writers’ Conference for good advice. Kim Church and Anthony Ulinski for the hair. My editor Beth Meacham. Sue Hall. The real Emma Zume.

  Finally, Kathryn Locey was a generous source of invaluable information on the Bible and first-century Palestine. She’s responsible for whatever credibility these portions of the book may have. Of course, any errors of fact or opinion are my own.

  Have I left anyone out? My personal trainer? Hairdresser? All the wonderful little people who make this great industry possible? Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up.

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION: REMEMBERING DR. NICE

  PART I ONE: PARIS HOLIDAY

  TWO: BRINGING UP BABY

  THREE: ROMAN HOLIDAY

  FOUR: SIMON AT WORK

  FIVE: THE CONNECTICUT OATMEAL BATH TREATMENT

  SIX: A DAY AT THE PET STORE

  SEVEN: A NIGHT AT THE HIPPODROME

  EIGHT: DANCING IN JERUSALEM

  NINE: SIMON AT HOME

  TEN: THAT UNCERTAIN FEELING

  ELEVEN: MAD WEDNESDAY

  TWELVE: HAIL THE CONQUERING HERO

  THIRTEEN: THE AWFUL TRUTH

  FOURTEEN: NOTHING SACRED

  Part II ONE: EASY LIVING

  TWO: TWO-FACED WOMAN

  THREE: TROUBLE IN PARADISE

  FOUR: THE GOOD FAIRY

  FIVE: DANCING IN CONNECTICUT

  SIX: ADVENTURES IN MOVING

  SEVEN: ROSETHRUSH AT WORK

  EIGHT: REMEMBER THE NIGHT />
  NINE: WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION

  TEN: ONE HOUR WITH YOU

  ELEVEN: THE PALM BEACH STORY

  TWELVE: WHAT KIND OF BLUES

  Part III ONE: UNFAITHFULLY YOURS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS