To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) (19 page)

Blake picked up a brochure for Bibleland, the General Animatronics religious amusement park. He was pretending to look through it when he spotted the black uniforms of two strolling policemen. He turned toward a kiosk stocked with pamphlets, picked out two more, and was deep in an appraisal of the two communities of Bethlehem II and The Promised Land in the reclaimed Sahara when the two policemen walked by. He made the mistake of glancing up to find one set of hard, shrewd eyes on him.

"Colonel," the policeman said politely, making a half-salute with the neurobaton he held like a sword.

Blake nodded back and returned his eyes to the glories of a religious community on the shores of Lake Sahara, until he sensed the policemen had departed. He then crossed a mall and went partway up the stairs until his eyes were on a level with the landing pad. He could see the fog coming in over South San Francisco, filtering through the big arcological mountains, graying the world.

Something seemed familiar about the unfamiliar skyline, but it took Blake a few moments to recognize what it was. The once bright-surfaced arcolog of
Hexahedron
West – where several friends had once lived and which once dominated the South San Francisco skyline, almost blotting out the sight of San Francisco itself, over the big hill – was now all but hidden in the towering structures around it.

The scale of the newer buildings was staggering. They were all twice as big as most of the arcologs of his time, each one thrusting up through the fog almost three-fourths of a kilometer or better. The stream of air-cars that flowed out through a canyon-like passage between arks toward the airport were just dots against the vast concrete-and-steel pale beyond. Lights were already going on as the fog moved in, and more than one structure bore fanciful variations on crosses as the topmost symbol of the building. Aircars going the other way were wavering red dots and the traffic flow seemed endless.

An aircar taxi now landed on the pad and two thin young men jumped out, followed by a woman. Their yellow robes whipped and roiled in the wind coming across the bay and their shaved heads made Blake feel colder. They hurried toward the stairs, then hesitated when they saw Blake.

"What is it, Member Timothy?" the woman asked. "Nothing," the man said, hurrying past Blake, down the stairs.

The woman then saw Blake and gasped, halted, then hurried past with nervous energy, careful not to look at him.

Out of sight on the curving steps, but still within hearing, one of the men said to the woman, "Member Jennifer, this is a neutral zone. You must remember that. You'll not be harmed."

Blake scanned the sky for any approaching taxi as the one that had delivered the robed trio departed.

His eyes kept returning to the great impressive mass of the city. Once he understood the new scale of the spacescrapers, he quickly located
Barharviowers
and the little ark whose name he could not recall: the one where Liz Zachary used to have her strange little parties. The arks seemed shrunken and disguised with added floors and modifications. The city seemed drab, without the gay character it had once had.

When a taxi dropped out of the overhead traffic and Blake could see Rio's face in the window, he was at the hatch before the skids touched the pad. The taxi was up and away while he was still buckling the seat belt and trying to kiss Rio at the same time. This was almost the first time they had been alone since coming from the tomb and the only time they were certain Voss would not walk in on them.

After a few moments Rio pushed him back and said, "Let me tell you what we've found out. Those computer terminals are excellent, much better than the Total Information Service we had back ... back then. We hit some areas where the damn thing would just blink and say
'Proscribed ... Proscribed'
and we were afraid that would trigger some kind of alarm. But nothing happened."

"Never mind that, kiss me," Blake said.

"No, Blake, please. Things are happening too fast. Voss is afraid his money is gone! Cryogenic work is proscribed, and he has the feeling that he was declared a criminal and his money confiscated because of it." Blake kissed his own trust fund good-bye.

"All of us were declared criminals?" he asked.

"He's not certain. It's difficult to find out anything without tipping someone off. He's trying. He thinks it happened about fifty years ago, more or less, when all these religions came to power after the Flash War."

"That must have been the radiation Granville found on his sensors," Blake said.

"I guess so. So much information really requires prior knowledge, an understanding of the culture. We tried getting a history of the last hundred years, but it was so filled with religious propaganda that it was almost useless."

"Can Voss contact any of his people?"

"He's trying. Switzerland seemed vague, with promises to check as soon as the offices open in the morning. Doesn't that sound odd? Even in our time, corporations that did business in multiple time zones had a skeletal staff at night."

Rio looked worried, then smiled slightly and continued: "The religions seem to dominate everything, especially here in the Western Hemisphere and in Europe. Not so much in Asia and Africa, I think. But with trade and religion and government all mixed together, it is pretty difficult to get it straight. The atmosphere is repressive in social and governmental areas," she went on, even as she looked out the window at the city. "Especially regarding sex. Just walking past a group of nuns in the hotel lobby, you would have thought Doreen and I were stark naked. Even in our drab uniforms!"

Rio sighed. "Jean-Michel says the religious taboos seem to have caused a freeze on society and on business. Only one child per person is allowed, just as in our time, but now they've put some real teeth in the law. A third child is a hell of a tax burden and a fourth child would just about ruin an average family, not to mention causing mandatory sterilization. But get this: there is no birth control. None. No pills, no abortions. That would be against the word of God."

Blake groaned. "So that's why sexual attractiveness and sex itself are so proscribed. Beauty leads to sex and sex leads to pregnancy and pregnancy leads to overpopulation." He looked down at San Francisco as they passed over a huge stadium and into the busy air passages between the massive towers. "Some glorious, shining future world
this
is! Where are all the creatures of shining light?"

"Oh, that reminds me. Jean-Michel found out what happened to Theta. She died about thirty years ago in the Abbey of St. Anne of the Skies – a
nun!
Not only
a
nun, but the Chief Abbess."

Blake shook his head in wonderment.

"Voss is in contact with some lawyers," Rio said, "and he's–"

"Never mind him." Blake reached for her, and they were still kissing when they set down on the landing pad atop the arcolog that held the St. Francis.

*              *              *

The rooms were expensive. Jean-Michel explained it as hiding where they could not be seen. Then he and Granville left to make calls from other visionphones and to try and obtain some different clothes. They had been gone about two hours when the door was unlocked.

Blake turned, expecting to see Voss. Instead, he saw a drably dressed civilian holding a magnetic key in his hand step back out of the way. Then the police charged in.

Blake stared dumbly into the pinpoint muzzle of a police laser, his heart sinking and his stomach twisting itself in knots. Feeling foolish and helpless, he looked at Rio.

She was wan and pale, as was Doreen, who stood in the bathroom doorway holding up a towel, which covered very little.

The officer in charge was a brutal-looking man with a depilated head and face. He angrily ordered Doreen to get dressed. Then he waved his weapon at Blake and Rio. "All right, you accursed heretics! Now the judgment of God is upon you!"

Blake was put in a small, clean cell that was spartanly functional, with a narrow folding bed and a low toilet. The clothes that replaced his stolen uniform had metal fibers woven into them that the guard boasted were trackable for a hundred kilometers.

They had fixed a narrow metal band around his neck, and Blake went over to the small mirror near the toilet to look at it. It was comfortable, but heavy, and engraved upon the dull blue metal were words. Reading them backward, Blake made out PENAL SECURITY CORP., LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS, PARISH 29, MINIONS OF GABRIEL. Below, in red, was the warning, DANGEROUS WITHIN TEN METERS. DEACTIVATION AUTHORIZED ONLY BY ORDER OF WARDEN.

Blake stared at the reversed words he had painstakingly decoded.
It'll blow my head off!

He sat down suddenly, fingering the neckband gingerly. There was a depression for a mag key next to the seam, but no other markings.

What have they done with Rio?
Blake thought angrily.
Maybe I could tell them I dragged her along against her will.

An hour went by, then another. He could hear movement, and some distant, muffled talk, but nothing happened. Another hour crept by. He lay on the narrow, hard bunk, glaring at the protected lens of the television security camera, thinking of ways to escape and creating lurid scenarios for what was going to happen to him and to the others. He cautiously fingered the explosive band around his neck, and his mood became gloomier by the minute. And with the gloom came anger.

His captors arrived at last, the tough young Swords of St. Michael, Defender of the Faith. They were dressed in black-and-silver uniforms, ornately handled nerve whips at their belts and dark-visioned helmets set square on their heads. Blake went with them without resistance.

Blake expected a court and found himself in a court. But it was an ecclesiastical court, with white-robed figures on a high bench and a large cross on the wall behind. The cross was banded with triple rows of soft neon and it seemed to quiver faintly.

The judges were old, with pale skins and pale eyes, their faces set in one expression: disapproval.

"Blake Paul Mason, come forth," a red-robed bailiff said.

Another robed figure from a tier of robed figures to the right read aloud the accusations. "The accused is charged with temporal transportation, longevity research, unlawful flight, grand larceny aircraft, unlawful possession of dangerous weapons, impersonation of an officer of a friendly state, possession of cryogenic equipment and processes, illegal entry, illegal exit, no visible means of support, suspicion of blasphemy, unlawful cohabitation, suspicion of proscribed sexual acts, and violation of the fugitive act."

"I want a lawyer," Blake said.

"Quiet!" said the bailiff.

"I want a lawyer!" Blake said loudly.

One of the judges looked up from a readout screen and glowered at Blake. "Young man, this is not a court of law. This is a court of enquiry."

"It looks like a court to me," Blake said, his anger obvious.

The old man merely looked at him and then gestured toward the bailiff.

"Do you desire a Bible?" the bailiff asked. "What version? Celestial Council? Authorized Kingdom of God? Guardian? Archangel? Blessed Revised? Skypilots Easyread?" The bailiff paused and looked suspiciously at Blake. "You don't want one of the
old
ones, do you?"

"I want a lawyer."

"You don't need a lawyer. The court will see that you are fairly handled," the bailiff said sternly.

It took about ten minutes. Blake was not given a chance to ask questions or to make a statement. The only thing he said was, "Not guilty, and you don't understand that–"

"The decision of this court is that you be mandated to a court of law and there be tried for offenses against the State. You are judged guilty of all charges against the Church and automatically excommunicated from its protection. Bailiff!"

Blake looked at the old men on the bench, his teeth pressed tightly together and his muscles bunching. They appeared oblivious to him and the next case was called.

He spent more hours in his cell, then was transported to another jail and another cell and waited still more hours. Finally he was taken to another courtroom and put in a clear-plastic booth three meters square.

The courtroom was almost empty, only a few disinterested spectators lounging in the rows of seats.  Blake saw screens, and quickly realized that both judge and prosecutor were there only on television – safe from the violence of the courtroom and detached from those they judged. It angered Blake still further to be handled like a piece of meat, without even the dignity of meeting his accusers face to face.

They brought in Doreen after a few minutes, and then Rio. Both women were wearing the same sort of drab gray uniforms that Blake wore, but not even those shapeless garments could hide their figures. They, too, wore neckbands.

All quietly compared notes, and they found that they each had been tried in the ecclesiastical court, and that their charges had been the same – except for an additional charge of "unlawful garments" that had been added to the women's accusations.

A plump young man approached and was admitted to the booth. He introduced himself as Ben Richards and announced that he had been appointed their lawyer.

"Where were you when we were in the goddamn church court?" Blake growled.

Richards looked shocked. "Please, don't make it worse by blaspheming."

"What? What the hell kind of lawyer are you, anyway?"

"A devout one. There is no use your protesting the findings of the ecclesiastical court. It is out of our jurisdiction. I'm only here to defend you in the criminal action in state court. My advice to you is to plead guilty and throw yourself on the mercy of the court."

"But we're innocent!" Rio said. "We didn't know about your laws – how could we?"

"Cryogenics were legal in our time," Doreen protested.

"Please. You know your guilt. The ecclesiastical court established that. Plead guilty and recant, take your penance and give thanks to God."

"Some lawyer!" Doreen groaned. She moved close to Richards and her voice dropped seductively, "Listen, honey, get us off and..."

The lawyer paled and moved to the other bench quickly, dropping some papers from his briefcase.

Doreen looked at Blake and Rio and shrugged. "Funny world," she said. "That used to work pretty well."

Richards went before the judge's lens and announced he had been appointed defense lawyer. He thrust some papers under a reprofax, then came back to the defense booth.

"What have you decided?" he asked nervously.

"To get another lawyer," Rio said.

Richards shook his head. "No, I'm it. You're lucky to get me. I'm only here because my clients in an airtaxi suit got into another dispute on the way here and they're in Mother of Angels right now. The controller caught me on the way out."

"Then get us off," Doreen said.

"I can't. You're guilty."

"But that's your job – getting us off," Doreen said.

"But I know you're guilty," Richards complained.

"What's that got to do with it?" Rio asked sharply.

"Are you a lawyer or not?"

"I know a guilty client when I see one." Richards glowered. "I didn't want this case on my record. I tried to get off, I really did. But that Ruffner, he's had it in for me ever since I beat him on the
Fitzgerald
versus
Boers
case. He's assignment proctor today and–"

"Listen," Blake said, grabbing his arm. "Defend us! We admit we are here by cryogenic methods, but that wasn't illegal in our time, so how could we know? Now get up there and tell them!"

The lawyer sighed. "See? You admit your guilt." He sighed again, elaborately.

A soft bell rang. The screens lit up and a panel of three judges appeared. On another screen, a bailiff read the accusations and added that all three of the defendants had been found guilty in Ecclesiastical Court Fifty-Six, Parish of St. Randall the Extreme, Division Twenty-One.

"How do you plead?" the center judge asked in a bored voice.

"Guilty to all counts, your honor," Richards said. "Hey!" Doreen said, making a grab for Richards. Blake seized her, and Richards dodged around her, leaving the booth without much dignity.

Their trial was over in less than a minute: the judge must have had the computers already programmed. Hardcopy slithered out of a slot, and a court marshal read the verdict aloud.

"The defendants have pleaded guilty and are sentenced to one year's assignment to the staff of the San Francisco City and County Recreation Department."

Blake stared at the television screen. It seemed such a trivial sentence for such serious crimes. This world would never cease to amaze him!

He turned to look at Rio and Doreen. Confusion replaced the fear on their faces.

Richards spoke to them through a grille in the wall. "I'm sorry. It's not so bad, though. You could have gotten thirty days. The court must have considered your, you know, unique situation."

The three defendants looked at each other, puzzled and confused.

The lawyer looked around, then said quietly, "See, on a thirty-day sentence they hit you with the really bad acts right away. But on a year's sentence you get
some
training so you won't embarrass the cadre. They'll put you in the parades and maybe into some of the easy acts, like the clowns. Unless they really need you in the, um, heavy acts. Or if you antagonize someone. Sometimes the projected rate of disability increases unexpectedly and ... well, you understand ... in that case they…”

Richards shrugged and left the sentence unfinished. "Of course, along about the tenth month they start listing you for ... well, bigger draws. You know." He gave them a sad smile and reshuffled some papers in his briefcase.

Blake, Rio, and Doreen just looked at him, not knowing what to say. "Well, look, I wish I had more time to talk to you folks, I really do," Richards said. "That must have been pretty exciting, living back there in the old days. But I'm afraid a–" he paused to look around again–"a heresy monitor might see me and ... Well, it doesn't do much good to be seen with known heretics, does it?" Richards smiled a sick smile, closed his untidy briefcase, and started to leave. He stopped, looked back, and added: "Nothing personal." Then, to a nearby trio of marshals he said, "All right, they're all yours."

Rio, Doreen, and Blake stared at each other.

"Where the hell is Voss?" Rio asked.

"Blake," Doreen asked, "did I hear that right? We
are
being sent to the Circus, aren't we?" Blake nodded. "Jesus. Say, isn't that cruel and unusual punishment?"

"It's probably not unusual around here," he answered.

Then the marshals took them away to separate cells.