Bolbay strode into the center of the chamber. “I now wish for us to move to the alibi-archive pavilion,” she said, facing the adjudicator.
Sard glanced at the timepiece mounted on the ceiling, clearly concerned about how long all this was taking. “You’ve already established that Scholar Huld’s alibi archive can’t possibly show anything leading up to Ponter Boddit’s disappearance.” She scowled. “I’m sure”—she said this in a tone that would brook no argument—“that Scholar Huld and whoever is going to speak on his behalf will agree that this is true without you having to drag us over there to prove it.”
Bolbay nodded respectfully. “Indeed, Adjudicator. But it isn’t Scholar Huld’s alibi cube I wish to have unlocked. It is Ponter Boddit’s.”
“It won’t show anything of his disappearance, either,” said Sard, sounding exasperated, “and for the same reason: the thousand armspans of rock blocking its transmissions.”
“Quite true, Adjudicator,” said Bolbay. “But it is not Scholar Boddit’s disappearance that I wish to review. Rather, I want to show you events dating from 254 months ago.”
“Two hundred and fifty-four!” exclaimed the adjudicator. “How could something that long past possibly be germane to these proceedings?”
“If you will indulge me,” said Bolbay, “I think you will see that it has great bearing.”
Adikor was tapping above his browridge with a cocked thumb, thinking. Two-and-a-half hundredmonths: that was a little over nineteen years. He’d known Ponter back then; they were both 145s, and had entered the Academy simultaneously. But what event from that far back could—
Adikor found himself on his feet. “Worthy Adjudicator, I object to this.”
Sard looked at him. “Object?” she said, startled to hear such a thing during a legal proceeding. “On what basis? Bolbay isn’t proposing to unlock your alibi archive—only Scholar Boddit’s. And since he is missing, then opening his archive is something Bolbay, as tabant of his closest living relatives, has a right to request.”
Adikor was angry with himself. Sard might have indeed denied Bolbay’s request, if he’d just kept his mouth shut. But now she was no doubt curious about what it was that Adikor wanted to keep hidden.
“Very well,” said Sard, making her decision. She looked out at the crowd of spectators. “You people will have to stay here, until I decide whether this is something that needs to be seen publicly.” She shifted her gaze. “Scholar Boddit’s immediate family, Scholar Huld, and whoever will be speaking on behalf of him may join us, assuming none of them are Exhibitionists.” And, at last, her eyes fell on Bolbay. “All right, Bolbay. This better be worth my time.”
Sard, Bolbay, Adikor, Jasmel, and Megameg, holding Jasmel’s hand, made their way down the wide, moss-covered corridor to the alibi pavilion. Bolbay apparently couldn’t resist a dig at Adikor as they walked along. “No one to speak on your behalf, eh?” she said.
For once, Adikor did manage to keep his mouth shut.
* * *
There weren’t many people still alive who had been born before the introduction of the Companions: those few from generation 140 and even fewer from 139 who hadn’t yet died. For everyone else, a Companion had been part of their lives since just after birth, when the initial infant-sized implant was installed. The celebration of the thousandth month since the beginning of the Alibi Era would happen shortly; great festivities were planned worldwide.
Even just here in Saldak, there were tens of thousands who had been born and had already died since the first Companion was installed; that initial implant had been put into the forearm of its own creator, Lonwis Trob. The great alibi-archive pavilion, here, next to the Gray Council building, was divided into two wings. The one on the south abutted an outcropping of ancient rock; it would be extraordinarily difficult to expand that wing, and so it was used to store the active alibi cubes of those now alive, a number that was pretty much a constant. The north wing, although currently no bigger than the south, could expand for a great distance, as required; when someone died, his or her alibi cube was disconnected from the receiver array and brought there.
Adikor wondered which wing Ponter’s cube was being stored in now. Technically, the adjudicator had yet to rule that murder had occurred. He hoped it was the wing of the living; he wasn’t sure if he could maintain his composure if he had to face Ponter’s cube on the other side.
Adikor had been to the archives before. The north wing, the wing of the dead, had a separate room, with an open archway leading into it, for each generation. The first one was tiny, holding a single cube, that of Walder Shar, the only member of generation 131 to still be alive in Saldak when the Companions were introduced. The next four rooms were successively bigger, housing cubes from members of generations 132, 133, 134, and 135, each ten years older than its predecessor. Starting with generation 136, all the rooms were the same size, although very few cubes had yet been transferred over from generations after 144, almost all of whose members were still alive.
The south wing had but a single room, with 30,000 receptacles for alibi cubes. Although originally there had been great order in the south wing, with the initial collection of cubes sorted by generation and, within each generation, subdivided by sex, much of that had been lost over time. Children were all born in orderly lots, but people died at a wide range of ages, and so cubes from subsequent generations had been plugged into vacant receptacles wherever they happened to be.
That made finding a particular cube out of more than 25,000—the population of Saldak—impossible without a directory. Adjudicator Sard presented herself to the Keeper of Alibis, a portly woman of generation 143.
“Healthy day, Adjudicator,” said the woman, sitting on a saddle-seat behind a kidney-shaped table.
“Healthy day,” said Sard. “I wish to access the alibi archive of Ponter Boddit, a physicist from generation 145.”
The woman nodded and spoke into a computer. The machine’s square screen displayed a series of numbers. “Follow me,” she said. Sard and the others did just that.
For all her bulk, the keeper had a sprightly step. She led them down a series of corridors, the walls of which were lined with niches, each containing an alibi cube, a block of reconstituted granite about the size of a person’s head. “Here we are,” said the woman. “Receptacle number 16,321: Ponter Boddit.”
The adjudicator nodded, then turned her wrinkled wrist with its own Companion to face the glowing blue eye on Ponter’s cube. “I, Komel Sard, adjudicator, hereby order the unlocking of alibi receptacle 16,321, for just and appropriate legal inquiries. Timestamp.”
The eye on the receptacle turned yellow. The adjudicator stepped out of the way, and the archivist held up her Companion. “I, Mabla Dabdalb, Keeper of Alibis, hereby concur with the unlocking of receptacle 16,321, for just and appropriate legal inquiries. Timestamp.” The eye turned red, and a tone sounded.
“There you are, Adjudicator. You can use the projector in room twelve.”
“Thank you,” said Sard, and they marched back up to the front. Dabdalb pointed out the room she’d assigned them, and Sard, Bolbay, Adikor, Jasmel, and Megameg walked over to it and went inside.
The room was large and square, with a small gallery of saddle-seats against one wall. Everyone sat down, except for Bolbay, who moved over to the wall-mounted control console. It was only within this building that the alibi archives could be accessed; to protect against unauthorized viewing, the archive pavilion was completely isolated from the planetary information network, and had no outside telecommunications lines. Although it was sometimes inconvenient to have to physically come to the archives to access one’s own recordings, the isolation was considered an appropriate safeguard.
Bolbay looked at the small group that had assembled here. “All right,” she said. “I’m going to call up the events of 146/128/11.”
Adikor nodded in resignation. He wasn’t sure about the eleventh day, but the 128th moon since the birth of generati
on 146 sounded right.
The room darkened and an almost invisible sphere, like a soap bubble, appeared to float in front of them. Bolbay evidently felt the default size wasn’t dramatic enough for her purposes: Adikor could hear her snapping control buds out, and the sphere’s diameter grew until it was more than an armspan across. She plucked more controls, and the sphere filled with three smaller spheres packed together, each tinged with a slightly different color. Then those spheres subdivided into three more each, and those ones subdivided again, and on and on, like sped-up video of some alien cell undergoing mitosis. As the overall sphere filled with progressively smaller and smaller spheres, those smaller spheres took on more and more colors, until, finally, the process stopped, and an image of a young man standing in a positive-pressure thinking room at the Science Academy filled the viewing sphere, as though it were a three-dimensional sculpture made of beads.
Adikor nodded; this recording was made long enough ago that the new resolution enhancements weren’t available. Still, it was eminently watchable.
Bolbay was evidently operating more controls. The bubble spun around so that everyone could see the face of the person being depicted. It was Ponter Boddit. Adikor had forgotten how young Ponter had looked back then. He glanced at Jasmel, sitting next to him. Her eyes were wide in wonder. It probably wasn’t lost on her that here was her father at just about the age she was now; indeed, Klast had already been pregnant with Jasmel at the time these images were recorded.
“That, of course, is Ponter Boddit,” said Bolbay. “At half his current age—or what would be his current age, if he were still alive.” She quickly pushed on before the adjudicator could berate her. “Now, I’m going to fast-forward …”
The image of Ponter walked, sat, stood, puttered around the room, consulted a datapad, shimmied against a scratching pole, all at frenetic speed. And then the airlock door to the room opened—the positive pressure kept out pheromones that might distract one’s studying—and a young Adikor Huld entered.
“Pause,” said Adjudicator Sard. Bolbay froze the image. “Scholar Huld, will you confirm that that is indeed you?”
Adikor was somewhat mortified to see his own face; he’d forgotten that for a brief time he’d adopted the affectation of shaving off his beard. Ah, but if that were the only folly from his youth that had been recorded … “Yes, Adjudicator,” said Adikor, softly. “That’s me.”
“All right,” said Sard. “Continue.”
The image in the bubble started running forward again at high speed. Adikor moved around the room, as did Ponter—although the image of Ponter always stayed in the center of the sphere; it was the space around him that shifted.
Adikor and Ponter seemed to be talking amiably …
And then talking less amiably …
Bolbay slowed the playback to normal speed.
Ponter and Adikor were arguing by this point.
And then—
And then—
And then—
Adikor wanted to close his eyes. His own memories of this event were vivid enough. But he’d never seen it from this perspective, never seen the expression that had been on his face …
And so he watched.
Watched as he clenched his fingers …
Watched as he pulled back his arm, biceps bulging …
Watched as he propelled his arm forward …
Watched as Ponter lifted his head just in time …
Watched as his fist connected with Ponter’s jaw ….
Watched as Ponter’s jaw snapped sideways …
Watched as Ponter staggered backward, blood spurting from his mouth …
Watched as Ponter spit out teeth.
Bolbay froze the image again. Yes, to his credit, the expression now on the young Adikor’s face was one of shock and great remorse. Yes, he was bending over to help Ponter up. Yes, he clearly regretted what he’d done, which of course had been …
… had been coming within a hair’s-breadth of killing Ponter Boddit, staving in the front of his skull with a punch backed by all of Adikor’s strength.
Megameg was crying now. Jasmel had shifted in her chair, moving away from Adikor. Adjudicator Sard was shaking her head slowly back and forth in disbelief. And Bolbay-
Bolbay was standing, arms crossed in front of her chest.
“So, Adikor,” said Bolbay, “should I play the whole thing back with the sound on, or would you like to save us all some time and tell us what you and Ponter were fighting about?”
Adikor felt nauseous. “This isn’t fair,” he said softly. “This isn’t fair. I’ve undergone treatments to help me control my temper—adjustments to neurotransmitter levels; my personality sculptor will confirm that. I’d never hit anyone before in my life, and I never have since.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” said Bolbay. “What were you fighting about?”
Adikor was silent, slowly shaking his head back and forth.
“Well, Scholar Huld?” demanded the adjudicator.
“It was trivial,” said Adikor, looking down at the moss-covered floor now. “It was …” He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “It was a philosophical point, related to quantum physics. There have been many interpretations of quantum phenomena, but Ponter was clinging to what he knew full well was an incorrect model. I—I know now he was just goading me, but …”
“But it proved too much for you,” said Bolbay. “You let a simple discussion of science—science!—get out of hand, and you got so angry that you lashed out in a way that might have cost Ponter his life had you hit him just a fraction of a handspan higher.”
“This isn’t fair,” Adikor repeated, looking now at the adjudicator. “Ponter forgave me. He never brought a public accusation; without a victim’s accusation, by definition no crime has been committed.” His tone was pleading now. “That’s the law.”
“We saw this morning in the Council chamber just how well Adikor Huld controls his temper these days,” said Bolbay. “And you’ve now seen that he tried once before to kill Ponter Boddit. He failed that time, but I believe there’s every reason to think he recently succeeded, down in the quantum-computing facility deep beneath the Earth.” Bolbay paused, then looked at Sard. “I think,” she said, her voice smug, “we’ve established the facts sufficiently to merit you sending this matter on to a full tribunal.”
Chapter 25
Mary went to the front window of Reuben’s house and looked outside. Even though it was after 6:00 P.M., there would still be light for another couple of hours at this time of year, and—
Good God! The producer for Discovery Channel wasn’t the only one who had figured out where they were. Two TV vans with microwave antennas on their roofs, and three cars decorated with radio-station logos were outside as well, plus a beat-up Honda with one fender a different color than the rest of the car; it presumably belonged to a print journalist. Once the wire-service piece had gone out about her authenticating Ponter’s DNA, apparently everyone had started taking this seemingly impossible story seriously.
Reuben finally got off the phone. Mary turned to look at him.
“I’m not really set up for guests,” said the doctor, “but …”
“What?” said Louise, surprised.
But Mary had already figured it out. “We’re not going anywhere, are we?” she said.
Reuben shook his head. “The LCDC has ordered a quarantine on this building. Nobody goes in or out.”
“For how long?” said Louise, her brown eyes wide.
“That’s up to the government,” replied Reuben. “Several days, at least.”
“Days!” exclaimed Louise. “But … but …”
Reuben spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but there’s no telling what’s floating around in Ponter’s bloodstream.”
“What was it that wiped out the Aztecs?” asked Mary.
“Smallpox, mostly,” said Reuben.
“But smallpox …” said Louise. “If he had that, should
n’t he have lesions on his face?”
“Those come two days after the onset of fever,” said Reuben.
“But, anyway,” said Louise, “smallpox has been eradicated.”
“In this universe, yes,” said Mary. “And so we don’t vaccinate for it anymore. But it’s possible—”
Louise nodded, getting it. “It’s possible it hasn’t been wiped out in his universe.”
“Exactly,” said Reuben. “And, even if it has been, there could be countless pathogens that have evolved in his world to which we have no immunity.”
Louise took a deep breath, presumably trying to stay calm. “But I feel fine,” she said.
“So do I,” said Reuben. “Mary?”
“Fine, yes.”
Reuben shook his head. “We can’t take any chances, though. They’ve got samples of Ponter’s blood over at St. Joseph’s; the woman I’m dealing with at the LCDC says she’ll speak to their head of pathology and run smears for everything they can think of.”
“Do we have enough food?” asked Louise.
“No,” said Reuben. “But they’ll bring us more, and—”
Ding-dong!
“Oh, Kee-ryst!” said Reuben.
“There’s somebody at the door!” declared Louise, looking out the front window.
“A reporter,” said Mary, seeing the man.
Reuben ran upstairs. For half a second, Mary thought he was going to get a shotgun, but then she heard him shouting, presumably through a window he’d opened up there. “Go away! This house is quarantined!”
Mary saw the reporter step back a few paces and tip his head up, looking at Reuben. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, Dr. Montego,” he called.
“Go away!” Reuben shouted back. “The Neanderthal is sick, and this place has been quarantined by the order of Health Canada.” Mary became aware of more vehicles arriving on the country road, and red-and-yellow lights starting to sweep across the scene.
“Come on, Doctor,” the reporter replied. “Just a few questions.”
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