A question from the prosecution. Deeds is silent for a moment.
“Probably about twenty bucks,” she says.
Evidence of Sloane Deeds’ years of profound abuse, of Griffith Sinkman’s terrible injuries, sustained during the helibike crash in which he’d been involved seven years earlier, were not deemed sufficiently compelling to suggest even diminished responsibility, much less insanity. On February twenty–first, 2521, a little more than a year after they’d killed six people in the space of about four hours, Sloane Deeds and Griffith Sinkman were sentenced to death. They were sent to the Berkeley Maximum Security Prison, where they spent the next twenty–four years in neighboring cells on Death Row.
Reactivating Venus’ dynamo sped up the planet’s axial rotation rate over twenty–five years until it was a quarter of what it had been. From that time, the rotational increase stopped; Venus appeared to have settled into its new rotational period and the terraforming project continued unabated.
Sixty–three years after activation, however, scientists measured a tiny decrease in Venus’ rotation rate. From that year the rotation period decreased by a fraction more roughly every two hundred Earth days, and showed no signs of stopping. The planet’s liquid core was solidifying faster than anyone had speculated it would. The dynamo was decaying.
Newspapers declaimed the failure of man’s greatest feat of engineering, but the group responsible for the terraforming took a more practical view of the matter. The planet was habitable, and would remain so for centuries, regardless of the dynamo’s decay; there was no reason not to continue to colonize, to mine, to farm, and to maximize profits from the planet for as long as possible.
The night that Deeds and Sinkman killed the Kecks and the Smiths, Venus’ rotation period was 97% of what it had been at peak rotation. Twenty–two years later, after they had exhausted the appeals process, the law banning capital punishment was found constitutionally unsound and overturned. Their sentences were commuted to life without parole and the two were sent to separate correctional facilities, to live out the rest of their lives as part of Venus’ ever–growing prison population. Venus’ rotation period was by then an alarming 94% of what it had been at peak rotation. A little less than three weeks later, a documentary about the Keck and Smith killings, containing all of Deeds’ testimony about the murders, was aired. The documentary, funded by an extreme right–wing organization known as the Coalition for Humanity, inspired a huge public outcry and, in an unprecedented political coup, six of the ten death penalty–adverse justices were removed from office and six more conservative justices installed. The second case the new court heard was a death penalty case; within two years of Venus’ death penalty having been found unconstitutionally inhumane it was reinstated ex post facto, meaning that the death penalty was reinstated for those Death Row inmates who had had their sentences commuted. They further decreed that all sentences be carried out within six months of being handed down. Deeds and Sinkman were sent back to Berkeley to await their executions.
Following a final appeal, this one by a left–wing human rights organization who argued that repealing the death penalty and then reinstating it constituted cruel and unusual punishment under the Interplanetary Convention on Human Rights, Deeds and Sinkman were scheduled for execution at midnight, Tuesday the twenty–sixth of April, 2545.
Detective Coulton Russell and Sheriff Jamee Philips were present for the executions. Russell, who was badly injured in a shoot–out in 2534, walks with a limp. Philips looks much the same as she did twenty–four years earlier, whip–thin and a little stooped, although her hair is grey now. Both are retired. Russell moved to the AT in ’37, to live near his daughter and grandchildren, but Philips still lives in Hartmann, on a little property she bought fifteen years before. Following the executions, Philips drove Russell to Hartmann to visit the graves.
“Hartmann was never the same after the murders,” she tells Russell, as they stand in the little cemetery, looking down at the tombstones. “At first they thought it had to be someone in town who did it. Because who would come all the way out here, just to kill someone? And then, even after everyone knew it was random, that it even might have been an accident, people just couldn’t stand it. ‘It’s not the kind of place I want to raise my kids anymore,’ I heard that a lot. And then as the crops began to fail◦– well, that was pretty much the death–knell for this place. Lots of people left, for Riccioli, or for the AT, or even for Earth. They keep telling us the decay won’t matter for centuries, but you can already see it changing things.”
She looks away, across the sorghum fields. “The house went into foreclosure a few weeks ago,” she says, meaning the Keck family farmhouse.
“What’ll happen to it, do you think?” Russell asks. They move away from the Keck graves, down a path worn through the grass by hundreds of sight–seekers.
Philips shrugs. “Probably get torn down, I imagine.” She’s silent for a moment. “They built a meat–packing factory up on the other side of town couple of years back; everyone’s giving ranching a try now. Everyone who’s left, I mean. They’ll tear down the house and put cattle on the fields for a few years. Until the decay can’t sustain that anymore either, I guess.”
They stop before another grave, this one belonging to Alvin Go, likely Deeds’ and Sinkman’s intended target. “Is it true they found two million dollars hidden around Go’s property after he died?” Russell asks.
Philips chuckles. “Not quite that much.” A true–crime book, For Love Alone, written by a notorious Venusian novelist and published seven years after the murders, was the first to propose that Alvin Go, who lived in a cabin at the end of a plane–tree–lined drive adjacent to the Keck property, was the miserly old man whom the murderers had set out planning to kill.
The two complete their amble through the little cemetery and walk out to the road, where Russell’s car is parked. “Can I give you a ride?” he asks.
“Thanks, but no,” she says. “I can walk from here.” They shake hands and Philips watches Russell get into the car and drive away. She waves at him as he pulls away, and can see his hand raised in response. Then, starting home, she walks toward the town and through it, leaving behind the big sky, the whisper of wind voices through the plane trees.
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