Corrupting Dr. Nice (25 page)

TWELVE: WHAT
KIND OF BLUES

Lance Thrillkiller grabbed Simon's shoulder and pulled him away from the phalanx of shouting reporters. Brushing away a hovering camera, he pushed them through the glass doors to the time travel stage. Yeshu, behind them, remained an extra minute to speak with the press. After the madness of the last few days, it was a relief to be in a quiet room away from masses of strangers.

"I don't know why I got myself mixed up in all this," Lance muttered.

"For the money," Simon said. He adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder, which contained some books, some music, and his olivewood box. At the time travel control board Simon spotted Serge Halam talking to the technician.

"I like money, sure," Lance said. "I also like a little lower profile."

"Get used to publicity," said Yeshu, entering. "We are only beginning."

Lance looked uncomfortable.

Halam came over to them from the board.

"There'll be another press conference at the other end. They've arranged to hold it in the atrium at the Herod's Palace."

It had been borne in upon Simon over the last weeks that press conferences were going to be a fact of life from now on. Since the trial, his fame had doubled. "A HISTORICAL REVOLUTION!" the tabloids shouted. Pixmen recapped the raid on the Herod's Palace, put viewers in the courtroom for Yeshu's summation, replayed the toppling of Abraham Lincoln from every angle, speculated over the possibility that the upcoming trials of the other conspirators might be called off, treated the curious to a tour of Yeshu's retreat in Costa Rica, gave viewer reaction to the trial and speculation about its aftermath, offered call-in numbers of Simon and Yeshu's nascent political organization. Both younger versions of Jesus had called off personal appearance tours to offer support to their older self.

Simon had become, if not the most famous historical ever brought into the present, then the most politically significant. In first century Jerusalem, his picture was plastered on every building. Herod had retreated to Galilee, unable to show his face in the city. Mass rallies pressed for a new Sanhedrin, led by Simon, to assume the political rule of the city. While Simon went back to Jerusalem, Yeshu would negotiate with Saltimbanque Corporation representatives in the present.

Repercussions were echoing up and down the settled moment universes. In the 18th century, radicals led by Paine and Danton had taken control of Paris. Across the 2062 net, a new debate raged over the practical effects of time intervention. The movement had its unexpected consequences: the Committee to Protect the Past had been raised into a position where it was forced by circumstance to play it straight. Lance was not happy.

Simon was not sure how he felt about all this. Before the hotel raid he had thought his life worthless, and had been willing to throw it away. The fight against the time travelers had seemed a simple thing. Now he could have an effect, but he was no longer the narrow zealot he had been.

Yet he was glad to be going back home, where he could once again see the sunlight on the Temple and hear the sound of voices speaking his own tongue. Why did he feel so sad?

Halam led Simon onto the stage. Yeshu embraced him. His eyes were moist. "Goodbye, cousin. You will see me soon."

"Once again, you have saved me," Simon said.

"Your need brought me out of my retreat," Yeshu said. "You reminded me what I am for. All of the me's." He smiled.

Yeshu went back to stand beside Lance. Halam nodded to the technician, who touched his controls. Across the room, Yeshu waved goodbye.

The room fell away, Simon's stomach lurched, the space swam about them, and a moment later the Gödel stage at the Herod's Palace rushed forward to surround them. Simon swayed for a moment, then got his balance. A group of historicals came forward to greet them. How strange it was to see these people in the clothing and beards of his own time. But he guessed that it would never completely be his own time again. Never the place it had been when he was a boy.

As the men approached, Simon whispered to Halam. "I remember when you told me, back in the Hippodrome, that no matter whether the revolt succeeded, the people from the future will be here. I thought nothing could be worse. Now I know that, no matter what you do, we will be here, too."

From among those coming to greet them stepped a tall young man in twenty-first century clothes, with curly black hair. It took a moment for Simon to recognize him. "Samuel?"

"Father."

#

Genevieve paid the cab and got out at Broadway and Fifth Avenue. She expected she had lost him crossing the bridge. She hurried into the Flatiron Building, but got snarled up in security.

They checked her bag, examined her fake ID, ran an MRI to assure themselves that she contained no explosives. "What is the purpose of your visit?"

"I'm Mrs. Owen Beresford Vannice! I'm here to meet with my husband."

The security flak checked his screen. "You're not listed as a party to this meeting."

"Call up. They'll want me there."

In private mode, the man called up to Rosethrush's office. After a moment he turned back to Genevieve. "All right. That's the top floor. The elevators are--"

"I see them." Gen took her purse and hurried to the elevator bank. She wanted this over before August could stop her.

It had been two weeks since the honeymoon. Four days after Owen had left their breakfast table and flown back to Connecticut, the call came from his lawyers.

Genevieve had spent those days discovering things. She could still see him walking away from the table, the belt of his robe jerked tight, despair in the set of his shoulders. The joy of her revenge had lasted only a moment, followed by a queer blankness. Her mind replayed the details of her triumph: first Owen's smug assurance, his pathetic attempts to conceal his desire, the way he protested as she dropped each of her bombshells, his sudden turn to arguing the opposite side of interference with the past.

It had not been hard for her to play Emma Zume's anger. Her offended propriety. Even the tears.

But after Owen was gone, instead of elation, Gen felt sadness. She had dished out to Owen exactly what he deserved, but balancing the equation had brought her no relief. She was angry, disappointed, frustrated, and worse still, unhappy with herself.

The phone call crystallized her feelings. He was having his lawyers deal with her? She felt blind rage. Did he actually imagine he didn't love her? Did he think if he got an annulment it would be over and done with? She knew him better than that, and it dismayed her that, after all this, he didn't know himself any better. Or was there some part of him she did not know, something he was keeping inside that he could not tell her?

The elevator doors opened on the top floor. There stood August, waiting for her. He pulled her aside.

"How did you get here ahead of me?" she asked.

"Never try to outhustle a New Yorker in New York, daughter."

She looked past him to the glass-fronted reception area of Vannicom Ltd. "Let me go."

"I will. But first I would like to know exactly what you are doing."

"I'm going to talk to him."

"Just talk?"

"They checked me at the door. No weapons."

"A pity. But why? You know I was against this marriage, but now that you've gone through with it I wish you'd understand that you're sitting in the catbird's seat. He wants an annulment. He has no grounds for one. In such a situation you can hold out for a virtually unlimited amount of money."

"I'm not interested in money."

"Bite your tongue."

"I'm not going to ask for anything. I'm going to tell him who I am. If he can look me in the eye, as Genevieve Faison, and tell me he doesn't love me, then he can have his precious annulment." She pulled away from him and pushed open the heavy glass door to the office. August trailed behind.

A pleasant young woman looked up from her desk.

"I'm here to meet with Mr. Vannice and his lawyers," Gen said.

"They're in the office. I'll let them know you're here."

"Don't bother."

"She's a determined woman," August explained.

Gen glided past the desk and through the dark wood door to Rosethrush Vannice's office. Behind a big desk sat Rosethrush, wearing a trim business suit. Ralph Vannice, smoking a cigar, was looking over some papers with a sharklike man in an expensive suit, whom Gen recognized as Owen's lawyer Derek Choi.

"Where's Owen?" she asked.

Rosethrush stood up. "He left. When Ralph let slip that you were coming, it was as if he had rockets in his shoes."

Choi spoke up. "I don't think it's a good idea to tell this to her now. We have some negotiations to get through first."

Gen ignored him. "Has he gone back to Thornberry?"

"He's going to the NY Port Authority Gödel stage. He arranged it all beforehand. He just wanted to sign the papers and leave."

"Where's he going?"

"Back to the Cretaceous," Ralph Vannice said. Something was odd about Ralph. He had less hair, and the skin of his face and neck had a pebbly sheen, as of tiny scales. His nose was flatter, and were those wattles growing beneath his neck? "Who are you?" Ralph asked August.

"He's my father," Genevieve said.

Ralph stuck out his hand, the back of which was similarly growing scales. "How good to meet you. Emma didn't tell us she had a father."

"Don't trust him, Ralph," Choi said.

"I'm not Emma's father," said August.

Vannice looked befuddled. "But she just said--"

"This woman isn't Emma. It's Genevieve."

The lawyer spoke up. "You can't have some proxy sign these papers. That's fraud!"

"I'm not going to sign any papers," Gen said.

Rosethrush Vannice's brows knit. "I know that Owen's behavior may have seemed ill bred, my dear, but--"

The lawyer was out of control. "Keep quiet, Rosie. Don't try to bluff us, Ms. Zume."

"Faison."

"Whatever. If you think we're going to pay you a cent, you have another thing coming. This marriage wasn't even consummated."

"Yes it was. Six months before it took place. And I'm not going to annul it until I speak to Owen." She turned to Rosethrush. "Why is he going back to the Cretaceous?"

"He's returning Wilma. He says it was a mistake, she doesn't belong here. We had the devil's own time arranging for her transport. We had to get an exclusive lease on the stage."

"The trip back to the Cretaceous wasn't the problem," Ralph said. "It was the stop in Jerusalem."

"Jerusalem?"

"Yes." Ralph puffed on the cigar, a wry look on his face. "Mark my words, that boy is up to no good. It's about time."

"He said he was going to change his life," Rosethrush said. "What he meant by that he didn't say. I'm very cross with him. How dare he run off without honorably settling with you? It's simply not the done thing."

"I bet Det Gruber knows what he's up to," Ralph said. "It's got something to do with this Historical Revolution." He poked a finger at Rosethrush as if he'd said something significant. Then he got distracted by the slight greenish tinge of the back of his hand. He held it up and rotated it to admire how it caught the light.

Gen grabbed her father's arm, "August, is your passport in order?"

August raised an eyebrow. "Where are we going?"

"You know where. Not all predators are in the Cretaceous."

If there was skepticism in his face, there was also delight at her, an expression she had not seen in a long time. She supposed, from his point of view, he'd gotten his daughter back. They headed for the door.

"What about the annulment!" Rosethrush shouted.

"Don't say anything!" the lawyer insisted.

"Goodbye," said Ralph Vannice wistfully, as the door closed behind them.

Part III

Jerusalem, 41 C.E.

ONE: UNFAITHFULLY
YOURS

Red torchlight on the sweaty faces of the legionaries, a frigid wind whistling up the Tyropoean Valley, and the last rays of the sun rising off the walls of the Temple high above their heads. On the pavement in front of the Antonia the Romans had laid out the bodies of the rebels killed in that morning's raid. They’d hoped to catch some of the conspirators when they came to claim the bodies, but only a few women showed up to weep, and those had left. Owen, dressed as a Centurion, passed down the row of corpses. He found Simon at the end, his tunic dark with the blood from the neck wound that had killed him. Simon’s eyes stared at the darkening skies. Owen knelt and closed them.

Owen heard the clink of armor and creak of leather behind him as a troop of Roman soldiers double timed down the street to search the lower city. He stood and walked in the opposite direction, hoping to avoid any encounter with the Romans.

It was the beginning of the first watch. Down in the streets below the temple mount, all was deepening shadow. The articulated metal armor covering Owen's chest and shoulders did little to cut the cold wind. He had trouble moving quickly. The open tunic was drafty, his short sword banged against his thigh and the crested bronze centurion's helmet was too large and kept slipping down over his forehead. He held the helmet under his arm, slipped around a corner into a side street, and pulled his dark wool mantle around him.

=This isn't your line of work,= Bill said.

"Bill, you've been undermining my confidence since I was eight. I'm tired of it. Personally, I think that I am more than competent. As of today I'm resourceful, intelligent, and adaptable."

He turned the corner, stepped on a sleeping dog and fell on his face. The dog squealed and ran off.

=You're going to get yourself killed.=

A couple of soldiers on the plaza were looking his way. Owen picked himself up, jerked his cloak straight. "And if I go down, then you go down."

=You told Gruber you'd be back within three hours. There's an hour and fifty-four minutes to go. I ought to just take over and get us out of here.=

"Don't even think about it. You can take over my body, but you can't stop me from shouting."

=What would that accomplish?=

"It could get us both killed."

=It can get
you
killed. I'm hardware. I can be reinstalled in a new host.=

"In this universe, their idea of hardware is a thumbscrew. You'll be buried with me, waiting for your batteries to die out while I rot. Just help me with directions and I'll get us through this."

=Go north, take the third street on your left.=

Pilate had come to Jerusalem from Caesarea to show Roman force during the Passover holidays, always a time of political tension among the fractious Jews. He might have expected a dispute between a mystic rabble rouser and hostile Jewish authorities, but he couldn't have imagined a raid by time travelers.

Owen was revisiting the moment universe from which Detlev Gruber's recruiting team had snatched Yeshu in the 2040's. He’d arrived on the afternoon of Good Friday, the same day that Gruber's team had run the bloody raid on Yeshu's audience with Pilate. Here was Owen’s problem: to find Simon's wife Alma in the chaos of the Jerusalem night, and persuade her to come with him back to the settled moment universe a decade later.

The trouble was finding anyone at all. With sunset Passover had begun, and any good Jew was bound to his home. Tonight it was not simply the holy day that sent them there. The city was in a state of fear. The surviving apostles were in hiding.

It was a risky business.

Owen had one lead: on a map of old Jerusalem, Gruber had pointed out the location of the house in the Second Quarter where he and his crew had met with the frightened apostles early that morning, after Yeshu had been taken in the Garden of Gethsemane. But since Gruber and the snatch crew had retreated to the future immediately after the assault, he could not tell Owen what Yeshu's followers had done afterwards.

=Down two buildings, then left.=

Owen kept in the lee of the west side of the street, in the shadows. At the corner he scanned the street. It was one of the better neighborhoods, lined with stone houses with stout wooden doors. Some had small courtyards and second stories whose awnings projected over the street.

=It should be that large house on the left.=

But between Owen and the house were two Roman soldiers, huddled against the cold, arguing. Owen circled around to the shadows of a nearby building and eavesdropped.

"I don't like this," the shorter of the two, with massive forearms and several days' growth of beard, said. "The staff officers sit on their fat asses in the baths. And here we are, just the two of us, going house to house. I haven’t had anything to eat since noon."

"Let's just keep moving."

"Those centurions around Pilate kiss butt until their lips are chapped. They don't care if they get us killed."

"What were they supposed to do? They haven't got enough troops. They had to spread us out."

"All the more reason to wait for reinforcements."

"I'm not arguing with you. But the sooner we're done, the sooner we get back."

The short one blew on his hands. He picked up the six-foot javelin leaning against the wall.

"They say that demons stole this magician away."

"Demons," the other snorted. "If they were demons, why didn't they protect his apostles?"

"I hear they shot lightning bolts that killed the guards. Lucius from Hippona got it, and Artinius. Holes blasted right through them. Commodus said these demons were dressed in black, with helmets like insects, glittering eyes."

"And once they disappeared with Yeshu, they let us tear his bandits to bits."

"So? Maybe the necromancer will come back and raise the dead. They say he's done it before. I blame Pilate. Why did he even get involved? It's all between these crazy Jews. If their priests wanted to take this Yeshu, why didn't they do it in the middle of the day, in the Temple? He was there all week."

"Surrounded by a legion of his followers. They had to do it at night."

"All the more reason for Pilate to stay out of it. He knew that if he condemned the man his followers would riot."

"He was trying to keep public order. The rebels needed to be taught a lesson. I wouldn't want to have Pilate's job, arguing with priests and magicians. And I don't know who those demons were, and I don't expect we'll see them again."

"So why don't
you
knock on the next door?"

"Shut up, you bastard."

Owen stepped out of the shadows. Learn to pretend. He was a centurion, a man of authority. He tried out his Latin. "Why are you men idling?"

The two legionaries stiffened, saluted. "Centurion!"

"You're supposed to be rooting out rebels."

"Uh-yes. We were just about to start on this street."

"Well, I'm glad I found you. I have information that they're hiding in this very block---that big house. Are there only two of you?"

"Yes."

"That's bad. Still, you look like brave fellows, ready to storm the gates of Hades for the emperor! I want you to back me up. But let me warn you, these rebels are magicians. They're protected by beasts."

"Beasts?"

"Yes. Iguanas."

"Ik-hanas?"

"Nasty things. Fierce lizards six feet long, with fangs like lions. Follow me."

The taller of the two hesitated. "We would follow you into Vesuvius. But how is it we've never met you before? We know all the centurions in our cohort."

=You are Drusus Quintillius of the cohort recently arrived from Sebaste.=

"I am Drusus Quintillius, attached to the Prefecture . . ."

The soldiers exchanged an uneasy glance.

". . . and we can't disobey the commands of the Prefect, can we?"

"Noble Drusus, everyone knows the valor of the Prefect's staff. But should you risk your person in this perilous search without proper support? Let us return to the garrison and at least round up a troop of auxiliaries."

"There's no time for that," Owen said.

"Though you possess the guile of Mercury, the arm of Mars," the tall one said, "we may lose them if we are too hasty."

Owen made a show of thinking. "Some wisdom there," he said. He clapped the short one on the shoulder. "Very well. You two go back to the garrison and fetch these auxiliaries. Bring the legion's astrologer, too. I'll watch the house. Hurry, though."

"We'll be back before you know it."

"Yes. Well, then, get along."

The legionaries saluted and hotfooted it away.

=One hour and sixteen minutes. Where'd you learn to manipulate like that?=

"They wanted no part of this search. I just gave them what they wanted."

Owen moved silently down to the house. It was a sturdy two stories, made of gray stone, with a corbelled staircase to the second floor room. Avoiding the downstairs entrance, Owen moved as silently as possible up the outside stairs. He stepped onto the rolled mud roof of the lower story and listened at the wooden door to the top room. A pale wash of lamplight escaped from the gap beneath the door. It was colder still up here, and weeds sprouting from the corners of the roof danced in the wind. Through the door Owen heard the sound of weeping.

He pushed the door slightly ajar. In the flickering lamplight he could make out the back of a woman, crouching, and facing, him, a second woman huddled over, her face turned downward, hands in her lap. She had dark hair, parted in the middle.

"Do not weep for him," the other woman was saying. "Trust in the Lord. Remember the psalm:

'Now I know that the Lord saves his anointed;

He will answer him from His holy heaven

With the saving strength of His right hand.

Some trust in chariots, and some in horses;

But we will remember the name of the Lord our God.'"

Owen pushed the door fully open. The two women started and turned. He held his finger to his lips, closed the door, and came to crouch beside them. The woman who had been trying to comfort Alma held the back of her hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

The weeping woman looked him in the eyes. "Who are you?"

He had questioned Gruber about Alma, and had a description of her rebellious character. In a world where a woman could not even speak to a man unless spoken to, her headstrong nature had kept her unmarried longer than most. She had run off from her parents to follow the nabi Yeshu, where she met Simon and fell in love.

Now her oval face bore an expression of despair. Her tears glistened in the guttering lamplight.

"I am someone who knows your heart. A friend of your husband."

"You are no Roman. You are one of
them
."

"Yes. I have come to help you."

"Help us? As you helped us before, and got Simon killed?"

"I am come to undo that injustice."

"How can you undo that? He's dead."

"You were a follower of Yeshu. You saw the dead rise."

"Is Yeshu here?" the older woman asked.

"I come from the place where he is now. I cannot raise the dead, but I can bring you to a Simon who never died."

"I don't understand."

"Look at this." Owen pulled a fabric television from within his cloak, shook it out, tugged it rigid. The women looked fearful. When the screen lit they backed away.

"Don't be afraid. This is only a picture."

"Pictures of men are forbidden," Alma's friend said.

"That's one of the rules the Sadducees would have used to crucify Yeshu. Does he care about the divisions enshrined in good order, ritual purity, what the good people of the world say?" He ran a clip of Simon from one of the interview shows after the trial.

Alma drew closer. "What magic is this?"

"This is your Simon, alive. I can bring you to him."

"Where is he?"

"He is in Jerusalem--a different Jerusalem. I cannot explain. If you wish to see him, you will have to trust me."

"How can I trust you?"

"Why would I be here unless I wanted to help you?"

She took up her heavy cloak and shawl. "Take me to him."

"No, Alma!" the other woman said. "It's some trick!"

"I should tell you," Owen said, "in this new Jerusalem, things will not be the same."

"Simon is dead. Yeshu is gone. Things will not be the same here, ever."

Alma embraced the other woman and followed Owen out. It was the fourteenth of Nissan, mid-month, and the full moon, now risen, lit the silent street. They kept to the shadows until they reached the market plaza before the Damascus Gate.

=Fifty-nine minutes,= Bill whispered.

"We must put on a show, now," Owen said to her. "Don't say anything. Just look like my prisoner." Looking into Alma's face, he saw that it would not be hard for her to feign anger and fear.

Owen stepped out and walked boldly to the guards at the gate, tugging Alma by the arm. The men straightened, clutching their lances.

“What is your business, Centurion?”

"I need to take this woman outside the city. Let us out."

"Where are you going?"

"A special inquisition, on the hill of skulls. Something you need tell no one about." He winked. "I will probe this woman, and get what I want from her."

Alma pulled against his grasp, and he jerked her toward him. She lowered her head.

"It’s a cold night out there," the guard said. "Why not take her to the Antonia?"

"Pilate does not approve of the kind of questioning I'm going to do."

The soldier's lips twitched, and he lowered the javelin. "Be careful. Who knows how many of those bandits are abroad at night."

"I know all about bandits."

They passed through the gate and out onto the moonlit northern road. Behind them the walls of the city stood dark and silent. Owen hurried them a half a kilometer down the valley, then struck off the road to the copse of trees where he had left the portable time travel unit. He'd already laid the cable out in a circle, its ends plugged into the suitcase-sized field generator. As he knelt beside the case, Alma watched him, from the middle of the circle. Bill led Owen through the sequence of settings for their return. Owen touched the control and stood beside Alma. "This will only take a moment. Be prepared for a change."