“Now you’ve got her all upset.” Sumi made a clucking noise of disapproval.
“Do you ever do anything but negotiate?”
“No. It’s my best skill.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Crane said, smiling. “Last night you showed me a few tricks.”
“Stop,” she whispered, slapping his shoulder. “Someone might hear you.”
The hearing room door swung open again, Burt Hill walking out, shoulders slumped, head down. Hill had agreed to testify from the start, and Crane, for his part, had refused to influence him in any way. The two had never discussed what they felt, what they would say.
“Are you all right?” Crane asked as Sumi said, “What happened?”
“I’m a damned fool, that’s what.”
Crane grabbed his arm. “Burt…”
“I was gonna burn him,” Hill said. “I was gonna burn him to the ground. Hell, I ain’t been half a man since he shot me. But … but I walked in that door…” Burt looked confused, hurt even.
“What happened?” Sumi said loudly. “Burt, if—”
Crane stopped her with a raised hand. He turned and nodded. It was coming.
“I walked in there,” Hill said again, “and I … I saw him. Oh God, it tore my heart out. It was Doc Dan, but it was … it was—oh my.” He put a hand to his chest. “I’ve got to sit down.”
The man collapsed onto the bench, staring at nothing, shaking his head. He took deep breaths.
The door swung open and a veiled woman stuck her head into the hallway. “Lewis Crane,” she said, then motioned him in when he waved to her.
“Will you be all right out here?” Sumi asked.
Burt mumbled a “yes,” and Sumi and Crane entered the hearing room hand in hand.
As many as fifty people stood in one end of the room. There was no seating. The crowd was a mixture of aging camheads and citizens of New Cairo. Camming was rapidly turning into a pastime for the middle-aged, chip technology far enough advanced that the younger generation found a raison d’etre within the confines of their own skulls. The tech kids who’d been raised on nothing but the pad were at the forefront of the giant Plug-in.
Crane recognized Khadijah in the crowd of people wearing colorful robes, her stance straight and tall, fire in her eyes. On either side of her stood two young adults, Newcombe’s children, he supposed. Little Charlie flashed unbidden through his mind. He didn’t see Martin Aziz in the gallery. Intriguing.
At the other end, the room was bisected by a yellow line over which no one crossed. There was a desk there, a simple gunmetal-gray plastic desk. A man in a dark suit sat behind it. He wore a red-and-white-checked ghutra on his head, the fashion of the clerical class. Behind him stood a Chinese, probably a representative of YOU-LI Corp. Beside the desk was a chair bolted to the floor.
And then he saw Newcombe. Shackled to the wall. The man’s hair was bright white, his long beard also snow white. He was wan and emaciated, his eyes dark, empty. Four G surrounded him, as if he could possibly escape, their new black exo’s and menacing faceplates making them look like storybook monsters, trolls from under the bridge. Crane realized then that the G had lost a lot of personnel at the Imperial Valley Massacre, as it was now called, and probably felt as if they, too, had a personal stake in the hearing.
“Dr… Crane?” the man at the desk said, using a stylus as a pointer as he read directly from a screen on his desk.
“I’m Crane.”
“Step forward.”
Crane complied, moving to stand before the desk, ready to be sworn in.
“Are you a consumer?” the man asked.
Crane nearly laughed. “Well, of course I am. Everyone is.”
“Excellent,” the man said, nodding judiciously. “Please take a seat.”
Crane sat. The man slid a pressure pad toward him on the desk. “This is the standard agreement,” he said, “stating that you came here of your own free will and that LOK-M-TITE Security Service, Inc., owns all intellectual property rights connected with this hearing and that you will not be reimbursed for this appearance. If you accept the agreement, press your thumb to the pad.”
Crane did, then sat back. He turned to look at Newcombe again. It was hard to hate the pitiful, all-but-broken, man who was chained like an animal. Their gazes met. Held. He saw sorrow in those sunken eyes, but he saw something else, too. Despite the horror Newcombe’s life had become, his eyes still held pride.
Crane looked at Sumi. She was nodding to him, but seemed worried, nervous.
“The floor is yours, Dr. Crane,” the nameless man behind the desk said.
Crane cleared his throat, having no idea of what he was going to say. His feelings were in turmoil. He opened his mouth and just let it out. “My wife … er, excuse me, Madame President Emeritus, reminded me before I came in here that all I had to do was tell the truth,” he said. “The question is: Whose truth? My truth? Or is there a greater truth beyond mine? I’m a man of science, like Dr. Newcombe was. We became men of science because we hate the burden of subjectivity. I’ve always tried to gear myself to the higher truth of science, the knowledge; but I fail. If you want to know my truth, I will tell you that I hate that man over there. I still can’t believe he violated me in so many ways. He took my dreams.”
He shook his head. “That’s my subjective truth. But what’s my analytic truth? My analytic truth is that this is a man I once loved very much who made a mistake that led to tragic consequences. His mistake was that he traded gods, science for Allah, and hence, traded goals without knowing it. He is as much a manufactured product of his religion as I am of mine, and as much a victim of it. But this is not about victims. Everybody’s a victim. That’s what Kate Masters prompted me to remember. Before it’s done, we all lose everyone and everything that was ever important to us, and then we lose ourselves. We’ve got to get beyond our own victimhood and take the long view, the view to what we leave behind and what follows us.”
He felt his voice rising on its own, realizing that this wasn’t about Newcombe, and Sumi already understood it. This was about Charlestown and the true art of community. “It’s so easy to justify committing violence and inflicting pain. It’s always the first, and most natural reaction. I must ask myself, what is the right thing to do?” Crane looked squarely at the man behind the desk. “May I ask the prisoner some questions?”
The bureaucrat nodded.
Crane stood and walked to Newcombe, the man’s face wrinkling into a posture of near amusement. “Have you paid society’s debt for the crimes you committed?”
“The bill plus change,” Newcombe said immediately, imperious. Crane smiled when he realized the man’s body was broken but not his mind. He sounded sharp.
“Did you intend to kill anyone when you went to the Imperial Valley Project that night?”
“No.”
“Are you remorseful for what occurred?”
“I am remorseful for the loss of life. I always have been. That’s not the way.”
“I agree. Are you a violent man by nature?”
“I’m a scientist.”
“Yes,” Crane said. “And a very good one, sir,” he added for the benefit of Mr. No Name.
“Thank you,” Newcombe said. “You’re not bad yourself.”
“Do you consider yourself civilized, Dr. Newcombe?”
“The name is Talib, and yes, I consider myself civilized.”
“Even after spending nearly a third of your life in jail?”
“I’ve already answered your question.”
Crane moved within inches of his face. “Do you accept responsibility for the death of my wife and my son?”