“Moses. My memory was damaged by the crude surgery on my skin. I did not defend myself because my identity is more important than my life. We must not let the Big ES know of my existence. If necessary I will self-destruct rather than expose myself as a class six. Court is a class six, but his circuitry is very primitive. Technology has regressed along with the reverse evolution of your species—squeak.”
Moses waited for Toothpick to speak again. How could he hope to escape without Toothpick’s powers? His heart raced. Why didn’t he speak? Court and Josephson were puzzled by the racing biolectricals.
Moses slept in spite of his neurohumoral tension. His long days on the cyberboat and the hectic pursuit through the tubeways had permitted little rest. Just before dawn Toothpick’s skin tickled his hand. He awoke and touched his teeth to the cyber.
“You are the seer of Dundas Harbor come north to free your people from the vegetable existence of suspension. You cured their diseases—rescued them from the brink of death. I am your staff. Wear robes and carry me. We will lead your people Out.”
Moses was still half asleep. Toothpick repeated his instructions until Moses’ cortex accepted them as fact. Acceptance was made easy by the fact that he had already witnessed Toothpick’s spirit leave and return. The role of a prophet was easy for one who held such a cyber.
Moses stood up, wide-eyed, and shredded his sheets into flowing robes. Waving Toothpick, he shouted: “Where are my children? My followers? Bring them to me.”
The scene in the Hearing Room began to unfold. Court gave the death statistics and presented its simulated version of the mass murder. An emotional reincarnationist who practiced necromancy told of the thousands of screaming souls driven out of Dundas by the heat.
Court listened politely to the tirade—a vivid account of souls in agony—launched in a quarter-of-a-million flood toward the spirit world. Crowded in death as in life.
“Man was meant to make this last journey in peace—with some semblance of solitude—not in the indignity of a flood,” concluded the necromancer.
“You should save such arguments for cases with a megajury,” said Court. “I’ll be trying this one myself. I have already accepted the plea of insanity. Final disposition is predictable. This hearing is routine. Next witness.”
“Your servant,” bowed the necromancer. “I make my statements in the name of all my students. We are sensitive to the sufferings of souls around us. The prisoner, Moses, has shown gross disregard for the souls at Dundas. He should not be allowed the insanity plea. He should not be allowed a place in the coffins at Dundas—for he would be benefiting from his crime. Taking the place of one he murdered.”
Court felt a surge of agreement from the worldwide audience. Citizens were concerned over security in the Suspension Clinics—for the living cold relied on the Big ES even more so than the living warm. While one slept in his cryocoffin he was very susceptible to injury by vermin or the elements. Moses’ act had weakened the citizens’ faith in suspension security.
“True,” said Court, “I cannot allow a murderer to benefit from his act if such benefit flows from the victim. The law is clear. Suspension space made vacant by murder cannot be assigned to the murderer. This trial will go to recess.”
“But I cannot execute one who reads so illogically on my sensors,” objected Court. “He is out of contact with reality.”
“You need not execute. Let it go to megajury,” said the necromancer.
“But I can predict how the megajury will vote,” objected Court. “They all want a secure suspension.”
Josephson sat quietly, listening. Then he went to talk with Moses.
“You must quickly make your plea for insanity. If Court agrees to let your case go to megajury, you won’t even last through the simulation. I know the public’s feelings on such things.”
“Let me think it over,” said Moses. He waited until he was alone and spoke with Toothpick. Later, he donned his robes and chanted to the optic pickups.
“Let me take my case to the people. The people will decide. A new prophet has arisen at Dundas…” He waved his cyber staff. “I have come to free my followers from Suspension.”
The necromancer sneered. “There is your out, Court. The prisoner demands to be thrown on the mercy of the people. I know them. If he came to Dundas to free the suspended by killing them, he can join them in their freedom—in death.”
Court quickly transmitted Moses’ chants to the public and asked for a megajury. A million eager jurors immediately signed in and hit their respective “execute’ buttons. Court held a safety on the bad gases and admonished—
“Because of the worldwide attention this trial has attracted, there will be no vote registering until after the final arguments by the defense.”
The cyberjurist noted that many of the jurors kept their thumbs pressed—the tally remained over 50 per cent.
“Those who continue to vote after this second warning will lose their place on the megajury—and the calorie allowance for serving. I will conduct the case in an orderly manner. Voting will be done at the proper time only.”
After some hesitation the votes flickered off. Court cleared its vocal circuits and called back the necromancer to repeat his emotional tirade which concluded with the epithet—“Moses the soul-desecrater’.
Court again admonished the jury to refrain from voting.
Josephson whispered to Moses: “You are a dead man if you insist on this line of defense. Freedom in death is not acceptable. If it were, we could do away with the Dundas clinics. The citizens want the illusion of immortality that suspension gives them. They’ll kill you for weakening that illusion.”
Court repeated the crime simulation for the jury. Eyewitnesses were called. Simple Willie spoke in Moses’ defense, but his asymmetrical face and peculiar cube-fondling reversed his words in the eyes of the megajury. If this poor half-wit was Moses’ character reference—
Willie’s mind cleared as he detected the unspoken hatred. Standing up, he glared at the optic pickups and shouted, “Moses is the only Good Citizen I’ve ever known. It wouldn’t be right to hurt him. He never hurt any—” Guards tugged on Willie’s tunic. “Let me finish!” The tunic shredded. He struggled. As the cloth fell away the worldwide audience was exposed to an ugly, scarred hulk—Willie’s frame deformed by lumpy, geographic keloids from his old actinic burns. A guard’s shoulder broke in his powerful hands.
“Now, now,” soothed Court. “You won’t help Moses this way. Put down the arm. You are now an accessory. Join Moses through that blue door on your left.”
Double doors hissed open. White-robed Moses stood there holding a staff. Willie bent over and placed the mangled arm on the guard’s twitching body. His powerful fingers released their vicious grip slowly—like a bony vise. There was no emotion on his face as he stepped over the body—only surprise at seeing Moses again. Doors hissed shut as he entered the cell. Court raised the number of defendants to two. Calorie allowances to the megajury were doubled.
A robot Sweeper tidied up.
The bruised Attendant took the stand nervously. Her vitriolic attack convinced both Court and jury that she really hated Moses—in fact many wondered at his three-day survival with her. The defendant count stayed at two.
“Let me plead insanity for you,” urged Josephson. “Throw yourself on the mercy of Court. There is still a chance. Your tests convinced the cyberjurist before—they might do it again.”
“No,” said Moses. “My place is with my people.”
“You’re out of your mind—” began Josephson. Then he paused when he saw Simple Willie bristle. “All right, I’ll wash my hands of your case—you’re on your own. But, I warn you, you are a dead man, Moses.”