“The executioners arrive, with a young one to be blooded as well. Lead on, servants of tyranny,” declared the prisoner. Even without the flowery speech, he didn’t look like a miscreant, but many people do not look like what they are.
Although we all had youthful builds and did not age physically, the man in the cell gave an impression of greater age—tiny lines in the corners of his eyes, a spade beard, faded green tunic and matching trousers, and handcrafted leather boots like my father made. He had light brown hair and a reddish beard, and his eyes sparkled as he spoke.
Neither Gilmesh nor Frey said a word. I did not either, trying not to frown at the mental static created by the fields—and the static I felt was outside the cell where the restrainer was focused.
Hightel was the one who spoke as he opened the door.
“Let’s go.”
He took the man by his arm. The prisoner couldn’t slide or dive once he left the field area because he probably couldn’t carry the bigger man with him. If he did, Hightel had the weapons and the training to subdue him after breakout, although my job would be to follow and assist him.
I noticed my palms were sweaty. I didn’t know why, really. The trip had to be routine—just up the ramps and across the center of the Tower to the Hall of Justice. We didn’t even go outside, and there were Guards everywhere we went.
I saw shadows around every corner, and no one said a word.
In the Hall of Justice, the Tribunes were waiting—all three of them—and that meant it had to be important. It only took one to decide most cases.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the prisoner was settled into the red “accused” box and the restrainer field was adjusted and trained on him. He didn’t look dangerous, wasn’t as big even as I was, but what do appearances indicate?
I eased myself into a corner of the section reserved for the Temporal Guard. Although no one had said anything, I assumed he’d require an escort back to the cell after the trial. Besides, I wanted to know why he was so dangerous.
The Hall of Justice is a magnificent place, lit with slow-glass panels brought from every type of colored sun in the galaxy, with seats enough for thousands, the whole Temporal Guard and more, and with the crystal dais for the Tribunes, the black podium for the Advocate of Justice, and the red stone box and podium for the accused. Every whisper from the front can be heard clearly to the last seat high in the soaring back of the Hall.
Martel was the High Tribune, flanked by Eranas and Kranos. They sat quietly, waiting. The Advocate, silver mantle draped over her formal black jumpsuit, stepped to her podium.
I drew in my breath as I recognized Freyda, the Counselor and my advanced time-jump instructor.
“Honored Tribunes, honored Guards, honored citizens …” she began.
I looked around the Hall. A handful of Guards and a hundred or so other spectators were scattered about, including a group of ten young students and their instructor.
The name of the accused was Ayren, and he was charged with civil disorder, theft, personal violence, and treason. To me, that seemed like an odd combination.
Freyda offered the evidence—the testimony of a dozen witnesses, all brief, what holo records there were—with a low-key approach. All of the testimonies of the witnesses were taped, but they were on call should the accused contest the factual content of the testimony.
Ayren chose not to challenge anything.
According to the evidence, the frail man in the red stone enclosure had employed crude explosives to destroy the Domestic Affairs regional office at Trifalls, used a stunner stolen from the wreckage of the office to stun the first Guards who arrived to investigate, and had stood on the ruins preaching the overthrow of the Temporal Guard and asking every citizen to murder the next Guard he saw.
Fortunately, none of the few he had spoken to had taken his admonition seriously.
Finally, Ayren tired of merely stunning Guards and, when the follow-up Domestic Force arrived, attacked them with a crossbow stolen from the Historical Museum.
Theft alone was almost an automatic sentence to Hell. Had to be. Any Queryan could slide into anyplace big enough to hold him. A few of the Guard could do better than that. So there was no real way to safeguard any extensive set of personal belongings.
Our system had some compensating mechanisms—like the duplicator. Why steal common items when you could get your own from the regional duplicating centers? Also, most Queryans had trouble carrying large items. My diving equipment, for example, was stored in a chest keyed only to my aura. The chest was locked, too heavy for most to carry on a planet-slide, and too small to get inside.
And the Locator tags inserted at birth meant that you could never escape the Guard, that miscreants could be tracked wherever and whenever they went.
All this didn’t mean theft didn’t exist, merely limited it because the stakes were low and the rewards few. Who wanted to be an Immortal and chained to a rock on Hell with eagles swooping and ripping at your guts, grounded by a temporal restraining field and fed by a bodily sustenance field that would not let you die?
Ayren hadn’t got all that far with his stolen crossbow. One Guard—Dorik—had taken a bolt through the arm, probably through carelessness, but the other two Guards had stunned Ayren and carted him off to detention.
As the trial progressed, I got more and more confused. Ayren scarcely seemed crazy, but, with each damning charge, each report of assault or theft, each violent action, he either nodded in agreement or failed to contest the charge.
At the same time, Freyda imputed no motives, just cited each action, the corroborating evidence, and the applicable section of the Code. Her summary was brief and concluded with the blunt statement that “Ayren Bly, Green-30, did destroy the property of the people of Query, did willfully take goods belonging to others without intent to restore or replace, did attack with intent to murder, and did advocate the overthrow of the government by force. The evidence is clear and undisputed.”
Not terribly eloquent, but sufficient, considering the wealth of evidence she had displayed on the screens.
Ayren declined to offer counter-evidence and rose to offer a closing statement, as was his right. By then, the students had left, and only a few spectators remained.
Ayren stood behind the podium. In the light from the slow-glass panels that illuminated the Hall, his eyes held the glitter of madness, and his voice was filled with the bitter fire of hate … or something more.
“Thank you, Advocate, Tribunes. My time here is worthless, a coin of gold buried in a charade of counterfeits …
“My speaking will not save me from Hell, nor will my words alter one iota the orbit of this doomed planet. But I must make the gesture, feeble as it might be, against the winds of time. For the winds of time do not die, but sleep, drowsing in the afternoon, waiting for the god of time to wake them and change the face of this hapless orb. There will be a god of time, and you will know him, though you know him not. And he will know you, and not all your power will stand against him in his anger. He will sweep away the mighty and the proud, and they will break into less than the dust of time …
“You have recorded the histories of dozens of races across the stars,
but there are few records indeed of our history. One cannot learn from history when there is no history …
“I look around this Hall built by our predecessors. We rattle around in it like dried gourd seeds in a child’s toy, playing out a charade of justice which is not justice. Nor is it law. Nor mercy. I do not expect these, nor should I, for I have agreed to let the charade continue until cometh the god of time …
“Do not condemn me to Hell because I violated the Code. Do not condemn me because I assaulted your agents of repression. If you must condemn me, condemn me for speaking the truth. Truth that you have yourselves condemned the people of a once-mighty planet to be your sheep, herded by a few blacksuits, beguiled by an easy life and meaningless toys, while you tear down the galaxy to protect your poor pastures and preserve your waning power. For your power surely wanes …
“Send me to Hell for trying to save the sheep from the shepherds who are no more than black wolves. Send me to Hell, if you must, but do not call it justice …”
There was more, but pretty much in the same vein—ranting and raving about the god of time who would put down the tyrannical Tribunes and the awful evil Guard. Poor bastard—didn’t seem able to see the mountain for the boulders.
No one listened to him. Who would have, with his spouting such nonsense?
He wanted to tear down everything. Then what would happen? But he was too wrapped up in his madness to ask those questions, and he wouldn’t have listened to the answers.
After Ayren finished, he bowed politely to Freyda, to the Tribunes, and sat down.
The fire had fled his eyes, and once more he was just a frail and tired man. For a single moment, I felt sorry for him.
The black curtain rose around the Tribunes from beneath the dias, but not for long. I didn’t time it. When it dropped, everyone stood for the verdict. Fewer than twenty spectators remained.
The slow-glass panels were damped, except for those focused on the Tribunes. Martel picked up the black wand from the holder and pointed it at Ayren. “Ayren Bly, Green-30, the Tribunes and people of Query find you guilty as charged and sentence you to thirty years on Hell, and on your return to a full chronolobotomy, to enable you to serve Query as you are best able.”
One of the spectators—a woman—maybe his daughter, contract-mate, or lover—collapsed. No one paid any attention to her as two
Guards I didn’t know joined Hightel. Two grabbed Ayren and marched him out. The other one and Frey followed closely. They were taking him straight to Hell.
Still … no one noticed the fallen woman.
I walked over. She was clothed in a bright green jumpsuit which flattered her tan and golden hair. At that moment, she was crumpled in a heap against one of the benches.
I picked her up and laid her out straight on the bench, wondering if I should cart her over to the Infirmary. She was breathing normally, but was pale underneath the tan.
She recovered before I’d decided what to do, stared at me, and sat up, shaking slightly. Her eyes glanced around and then settled on me. “Are you going to send me to Hell too?”
“What on Query for?” I stammered.
“You’re one of
them
. Isn’t that what you do to everyone who doesn’t agree with you?” She studied my trainee star, and an amused smile crossed her face.
“Only those who blow up buildings and try to kill innocent people.”
“No Guard is truly innocent.”
I was getting fed up with the conversation. I’d been worried about her, and she, whoever she was, was treating me like the criminal.
“So it’s all right to blow up people you don’t like if you can pin a label on them? That justifies it?” I demanded.
It didn’t even register. She shook her head sadly, and asked, “Did you ever wonder what the past was really like? Did you ever ask yourself why we don’t have heroes any more? Do you ever ask yourself why you do what you do? Not that I’d expect it of you. Or your type.”
I mean, what could I have said? That I intended to be a hero? I didn’t. So really, what was there I could have said?
She watched me for a moment. Then she turned and vanished.
Despite her words, I was impressed. Not many people can drop under the now inside the Tower. Not many at all.
Then I swallowed. Was she why Frey was worried? And who was she?
I didn’t like going to find Frey. So I didn’t. Instead, I tracked down Gilmesh in Personnel.
He looked up wearily from his stool and high desk when I came in, after proper announcement by a junior trainee I didn’t know. “Yes, Loki?”
I told him about the woman, ending with my punch line: “ … and she just dropped undertime right in the Hall of Justice.”
Gilmesh looked at me. “And you think that’s important?”
“Yes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have wanted an extra Guard. Were the Guards you usually use watching her?”
He actually grinned, but only for a moment. “You’re not as dense as old Ragnorak, are you?”
I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
He took a slow breath. “We don’t know who she is.”
I thought I understood. Locator tags don’t work unless you know the tag number. You have to match the person and the name, and you can’t sort the now by every Queryan—even with computers and data lattices.
“Should I have stopped her?”
Gilmesh shook his head. “Contrary to what that fool said, the Guard doesn’t operate like that. We don’t have any proof she’s done anything.” He sat up straighter. “So … go enjoy yourself, or whatever.”
There wasn’t much else I could do, except wonder, and that I could do on my own time. I wandered back to the West Barracks for something to eat.