by Hank Davis
“I have a sacred duty to defend the Mother’s children from what you have become,” Sarana said. “Including your daughter.”
Another sob shook the metal serpent with the woman’s face. Sarana made a gesture, and the men advanced, weapons still trained on the figures huddled beneath the judge’s seat.
A flurry of motion by the door distracted the praetor, and looking up she saw four women in the white and green of medical staff entering with Arleg, the old sergeant. She nodded approval. The old man had gone for lay nurses and not summoned more of the cathars. That was well, it would not do to frighten young Inas just then.
“Put her down,” Sarana said, voice clear and sharp, filling the brutal concrete space. The nurses had halted just behind the guards, unwilling and afraid to come too near. “Put her down and lie on the floor.”
The chimera stood there, unmoving, still clutching the human child to itself. Was that blood on the child’s arms? For a long while nothing moved. The guards could not fire without harming the child, nor the chimera fight back for the same reason. Sarana stood upon the lowest step of the dais, waiting. Waiting.
On Earth of old, in the Golden Age of man, it was said that holy men burned witches alive. Sarana knew better, for the Golden Age had been before Columbia, before the Mericanii conjured the daimon machines and brought their sickness into the world. There could be no witches without daimons. No demoniacs. Whoever those holy men of old had killed, they were no abominations, were nothing like the beast before her. They had murdered innocents.
But theirs was not the Golden Age.
Their witches and daimons were real.
And if it was a great sin for the ancients to falsely condemn the innocent, it was a far greater evil not to burn the guilty. For how could good men—faced with monsters like the witch before the dais—do anything but burn?
The witch knew it. Sarana could see the glassy fear in those eyes as Leocadia looked up at her. Or was it only glass? She knew she’d reached the end, that the face of her judge and the old sergeant and the faceless masks of the armored guards would be the last she would ever see. Theirs, and the face of her daughter.
“Put down the child and step away,” Sarana said again, more forcefully. “Now!”
With excruciating slowness, the demoniac uncurled, razored limbs unclasping. Leocadia stooped, lowering itself like some hideous iron vampire over the limp form of its child and laid the girl on the floor. Still bending, the monster’s human face drew close to the barely conscious girl. Weapons tensed, but the praetor raised a hand, and watched in astonishment as the mother-monster kissed its child on the brow…and drew away.
In short order the medical team swept in while the guards and cathars worked to secure the demoniac, binding it with magnetic chains to keep the bladed limbs pinned to its side.
The praetor regained her high seat as the jurors returned to their seats, black robes fluttering, making them look like a murder of ravens. Sarana looked down upon the tableau on the bare floor, the medics, the bodies of the cathars and the guards, the new guards standing over the demoniac bound in chains. Leocadia’s face turned up to look at her, all defiance gone from her eyes. She kept looking to the injured girl and the flock of white-dressed nurses about her. She did not speak.
“Leocadia,” Sarana said, using the creature’s name for the first time. “You have been found guilty of Abomination under the Writ of Earth’s Holy Chantry. You have profaned your body with machines and consorted with daimons. For these crimes against your own humanity and for your sins in the eyes of the Earth, Our Mother, you will be put to death by fire.”
It was the same speech she had made at the start of the hearing, before the violence had ended things. This time, the creature did not interrupt. The eyes still seemed human to Sarana, still brimmed with tears. Sarana shut her own. Justice should be blind. “But the Mother is not without mercy.” More words she had said before, as if time had turned round again. “Renounce your ways, cleanse yourself of these machines, and you will not be given to the fire. You will be permitted to take your own life.”
“Will she be all right?” the creature asked, looking at the child.
Sarana raised a hand. “Do you renounce evil?”
“Is she alive?” Leocadia asked, ignoring the judge.
“Do you renounce evil?” Sarana asked again.
The creature strained, craning its neck to try and peer past the wall of medical personnel.
“I will not ask again, Leocadia,” Sarana said, losing her patience, “Do you renounce evil?”
“To hell with you and your questions, woman—is my daughter all right?”
Sarana shut her eyes again. “Take her away, Arleg.”
The guards had to drag the demoniac like a sledge, metal grinding against the concrete floor, leaving pale scratches on the cement. It would be the fire for her, after all. Sarana hung her head and wrung her hands in her lap. She did not open her eyes. Why should this one be so much harder than the others? It didn’t make sense.
“Just tell me she’s all right!”
Those were the last words Leocadia ever spoke—or the last that the praetor ever heard. The doors of the hall banged shut behind her, leaving the court in uneasy and incomplete quiet. The jurors muttered on their bench, their presence a vestigial formality—there had been no need to determine guilt, not when the guilty’s own body shouted the crime.
Sarana opened her eyes, studying the hulking body of the demoniac still suspended in chains in the center of the hall. Was she imagining it, or was there a single blue light flickering in the compartment at the neck whence the snake-like Leocadia had sprung? Was there yet some spark of the demoniac alive in its outer shell?
“Have this destroyed as well.” She gestured at the hulk and stood, sweeping down the stairs she approached the nurses. Five of them knelt about the bandaged child while a sixth wielded a medical scanner, checking for internal injuries. Inas lay flat amongst them, pale face thin and drawn with pain.
Sarana glanced at the hulking machine, at the light shining in its depths.
“She’s alive,” Sarana said. “Will she recover?”
Could the mother hear them still, even through the walls of the courtroom? Possibly. Sarana found that she hoped it could. The forms demanded that the witch be put to death, but nothing in the Chantry’s Holy Writ forbade this little mercy. She would die, but she would die with one less victim.
“Yes, praetor,” said one of the nurses. “She’ll live.”
The blue light flickered…and died.
As if this was her cue, as if the world were set upon some poor dramatist’s stage, the child’s eyes fluttered open. Seeing the nurses and the cold praetor looking over her—or perhaps simply from the pain—she began to cry.
Sarana raised a hand to the sergeant, who shouted orders that the prudence barrier be dropped. The judge stepped over that previously impassable threshold then and knelt before the monster’s still-human child and victim. She was an orphan now—or would be in mere moments. She was young, doubtless they would see her installed in a convent, provided she was as free of perverse genetics as she was of her mother’s machine sorcery. The clergy could always use more.
“Hush, girl. Let’s have none of that,” Sarana said, and drew a white kerchief from her sleeve to dry the child’s tears. “You’re safe now.”
•
Christopher Ruocchio is the author of The Sun Eater, a space opera fantasy series from DAW Books, as well as the assistant editor at Baen Books, where he has co-edited three anthologies, including this one. He is a graduate of North Carolina State University, and sold his first book at twenty-two. Christopher lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with his wife, Jenna. He may be found on both Facebook and Twitter at @TheRuocchio.
THE CYBER AND JUSTICE HOLMES
Frank Riley
For good and/or ill, computers have greatly transformed the world since this story was written in the mid-Fifties, and its question re
mains: should courtroom justice be automated? And what would Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. say?
•
“Cyber justice!” That’s what the District Attorney had called it in his campaign speech last night.
“Cyber justice!”
Oh, hell!
Judge Walhfred Anderson threw the morning fax paper on top of the law books he had been researching for the past two hours, and stomped angrily across his chamber to the door of the courtroom.
But it was easier to throw away the paper than the image of the words:
“—and, if re-elected, I pledge to do all in my power to help replace human inefficiency with Cyber justice in the courts of this county!
“We’ve seen what other counties have done with Cyber judges. We’ve witnessed the effectiveness of cybernetic units in our own Appellate Division. And I can promise you twice as many prosecutions at half the cost to the taxpayers…with modern, streamlined Cyber justice!”
Oh, hell!
Walhfred Anderson caught a glimpse of his reflection in the oval mirror behind the coat rack. He paused, fuming, and smoothed down the few lingering strands of grey hair. The District Attorney was waiting for him out there. No use giving him the satisfaction of looking upset. Only a few moments ago, the Presiding Judge had visaphoned a warning that the D.A. had obtained a change of calendar and was going to spring a surprise case this morning…
The Judge cocked his bow tie at a jaunty angle, opened the neckline of his black robe enough for the pink boutonniere to peep out, and stepped into the courtroom as sprightly as his eighty-six years would permit.
The District Attorney was an ex-football player, square-shouldered and square-jawed. He propelled himself to his feet, bowed perfunctorily and remained standing for the Pledge of Allegiance.
As the bailiff’s voice repeated the pledge in an unbroken monotone, Walhfred Anderson allowed his eyes to wander to the gold-framed picture of his personal symbol of justice, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. Judge Anderson winked at Justice Holmes. It was a morning ritual he had observed without fail for nearly fifty years.
This wasn’t the classic picture of Justice Holmes. Not the leonine figure Walhfred Anderson had once seen in the National Gallery. The Justice Holmes on the wall of Judge Anderson’s courtroom was much warmer and more human than the official portrait. It was from an old etching that showed the Justice wearing a natty grey fedora. The Justice’s fabled mustaches were long and sweeping, giving him the air of a titled playboy, but his eyes were the eyes of the man who had said: “When I am dying, my last words will be—have faith and pursue the unknown end.”
Those were good words to remember, when you were eighty-six. Walhfred Anderson stared wistfully at the yellowed etching, waiting for some other dearly remembered phrase to spring up between them. But Justice Holmes wasn’t communicative this morning. He hadn’t been for a long time.
The District Attorney’s voice, threaded with sarcasm, broke into his reverie:
“If the Court pleases, I would like to call up the case of People vs. Professor Neustadt.”
Walhfred Anderson accepted the file from his aging, nearsighted clerk. He saw that the case had been assigned originally to Department 42. It was the case he had been warned about by the Presiding Judge.
Walhfred Anderson struggled to focus all his attention on the complaint before him. His craggy features, once described as resembling a benign bulldog, grew rigid with concentration. The Judge had a strong sense of honor about dividing his attention in Court. A case was not just a case; it was a human being whose past, present and future were wrapped up in the charge against him.
“Your Honor,” the District Attorney broke in, impatiently, “if the Court will permit, I can summarize this case very quickly…”
The tone of his voice implied:
A Cyber judge would speed things up around here. Feed the facts into the proprioceptor, and they’d be stored and correlated instantly.
Perhaps so, Walhfred Anderson thought, suddenly tired, though the morning was still young. At eighty-six you couldn’t go on fighting and resisting much longer. Maybe he should resign, and listen to the speeches at a farewell luncheon, and let a Cyber take over. The Cybers were fast. They ruled swiftly and surely on points of law. They separated fact from fallacy. They were not led down side avenues of justice by human frailty. Their vision was not blurred by emotion. And yet…Judge Anderson looked to Justice Holmes for a clarifying thought, but the Justice’s eyes were opaque, inscrutable.
Judge Anderson wearily settled back in his tall chair, bracing the ache in his back against the leather padding.
“You may proceed,” he told the District Attorney.
“Thank you, your Honor.”
This time the edge of sarcasm was so sharp that the Clerk and Court Stenographer looked up indignantly, expecting one of the Judge’s famous retorts.
The crags in the Judge’s face deepened, but he remained quiet.
With a tight smile, the District Attorney picked up his notebook.
“The defendant,” he began crisply, “is charged on three counts of fraud under Section 31…”
“To wit,” rumbled Judge Anderson, restlessly.
“To wit,” snapped the D.A., “the defendant is charged with giving paid performances at a local theatre, during which he purported to demonstrate that he could take over Cyber functions and perform them more efficiently.”
Walhfred Anderson felt the door closing on him. So this was why the D.A. had requested a change of calendar! What a perfect tie-in with the election campaign! He swiveled to study the defendant.
Professor Neustadt was an astonishingly thin little man; the bones of his shoulders seemed about to thrust through the padding of his cheap brown suit. His thinness, combined with a tuft of white hair at the peak of his forehead, gave him the look of a scrawny bird.
“Our investigation of this defendant,” continued the D.A., “showed that his title was assumed merely for stage purposes. He has been associated with the less creditable phases of show business for many years. In his youth, he gained considerable attention as a ‘quiz kid,’ and later, for a time, ran his own program and syndicated column. But his novelty wore off, and he apparently created this cybernetic act to…”
Rousing himself to his judicial responsibility, Judge Anderson interrupted:
“Is the defendant represented by counsel?”
“Your Honor,” spoke up Professor Neustadt, in a resonant, bass voice that should have come from a much larger diaphragm, “I request the Court’s permission to act as my own attorney.”
Walhfred Anderson saw the D.A. smile, and he surmised that the old legal truism was going through his mind: A man who defends himself has a fool for a client.
“If it’s a question of finances,” the Judge rumbled gently.
“It is not a question of finances. I merely wish to defend myself.”
Judge Anderson was annoyed, worried. Whoever he was or claimed to be, this Professor was evidently something of a crackpot. The D.A. would tear him to small pieces, and twist the whole case into an implicit argument for Cyber judges.
“The defendant has a right to act as his own counsel,” the D.A. reminded him.
“The Court is aware of that,” retorted the Judge. Only the restraining eye of Oliver Wendell Holmes kept him from cutting loose on the D.A. But one more remark like that, and he’d turn his back on the Justice. After all, what right had Holmes to get stuffy at a time like this? He’d never had to contend with Cyber justice!
He motioned to the D.A. to continue with the People’s case, but the Professor spoke up first:
“Your Honor, I stipulate to the prosecution evidence.”
The D.A. squinted warily.
“Is the defendant pleading guilty?”
“I am merely stipulating to the evidence. Surely the prosecution knows the difference between a stipulation and a plea! I am only trying to save the time of the Court by stipulating to the material facts in
the complaint against me!”
The D.A. was obviously disappointed in not being able to present his case. Walhfred Anderson repressed an urge to chuckle. He wondered how a Cyber judge would handle a stipulation.
“Do you have a defense to present?” he asked the Professor.
“Indeed I do, your Honor! I propose to bring a Cyber into the courtroom and prove that I can perform its functions more efficiently!”
The D.A. flushed.
“What kind of a farce is this? We’ve watched the defendant’s performance for several days, and it’s perfectly clear that he is merely competing against his own special Cyber unit, one with very limited memory storage capacity…”
“I propose further,” continued Professor Neustadt, ignoring the D.A., “that the prosecution bring any Cyber unit of its choice into Court. I am quite willing to compete against any Cyber yet devised!”
This man was not only a crackpot, he was a lunatic, thought Walhfred Anderson with an inward groan. No one but a lunatic would claim he could compete with the memory storage capacity of a Cyber.
As always when troubled, he looked toward Oliver Wendell Holmes for help, but the Justice was still inscrutable. He certainly was being difficult this morning!
The Judge sighed, and began a ruling:
“The procedure suggested by the defendant would fail to answer to the material counts of the complaint…”
But, as he had expected, the D.A. did not intend to let this opportunity pass.
“May it please the Court,” said the District Attorney, with a wide grin for the fax reporter, “the people will stipulate to the defense, and will not press for trial of the complaint if the defendant can indeed compete with a Cyber unit of our choice.”
Walhfred Anderson glowered at the unsympathetic Justice Holmes. Dammit, man, he thought, don’t be so calm about this whole thing. What if you were sitting here, and I was up there in a gold frame? Aloud, he hedged:
“The Court does not believe such a test could be properly and fairly conducted.”
“I am not concerned with being fairly treated,” orated the wispy Professor. “I propose that five questions or problems be posed to the Cyber and myself, and that we be judged on both the speed and accuracy of our replies. I am quite willing for the prosecution to select the questions.”
