Two young women, one at each hand, worked vigorously to trim his cuticles, file his nails, and give him that perfectly manicured appearance. A stylist worked with his bronze-brown hair and fixed every strand into place. Dieticians made careful recommendations about the foods Berthold should eat. Style experts met for at least an hour each evening to plan the candidate’s wardrobe for the following day. No one could ever find fault with his appearance.
His stomach ached from eating too large and too rich a meal the night before, against the advice of his dieticians. He reminded himself to be careful with his facial expressions today, since a twinge of indigestion might show up as an inexplicable frown.
Berthold glanced up from the speech notes, looking at his chief advisor, who waited beside him. “How are the others coming, Mr. Rana?”
Rana nodded. “Precisely on schedule, sir. The others will be ready when they become necessary for your campaign.”
The lash struck with a bite of electrical current that produced a fiery sting. Though the high-tech whip caused no actual harm, Berthold 12 felt as if his skin had been flayed. More misery, the same as the day before, and the day before that.
Fingernails cracked and bleeding, he stumbled under the heavy rock he carried while the hot sun pounded down. He could smell rock dust and his own sweat, heard the impatient shouts of the guards and the groans of other slave-prisoners. His mind ached, and Berthold 12 drove back the myriad shouted questions that hammered through his head. Why was he here? What had he done? The injustice burned like acid within him. Why do I deserve this?
Up and down the winding jagged canyon, layered limestone walls crumbled like broken knives. Work teams moved sluggishly, carting loads of quarried stone. Berthold 12 knew that machinery existed to do this sort of work, robots and automated conveyers could have taken away the rock. But this labor site wasn’t about efficiency; it was about misery and punishment.
When the electrical whip snapped again across his shoulder blades, Berthold 12 dropped the rock and collapsed to his knees. The guard’s hover platform came closer, and the armored man loomed over him. Beneath the polarized helmet, Berthold 12 could see only the guard’s chin and a smile that showed square white teeth. “I can keep whipping you all day if that’s what you want, prisoner.”
“Please! I’m working as hard as I can.” His throat was raw, his body a living mass of aches. “I don’t even know why I’m here! I don’t remember anything … but this.”
“Perhaps you committed the crime of amnesia.” The guard chuckled at his joke, then threatened with the electrical whip again. “If your crime was bad enough that you blocked all memory of it from your head, then you probably don’t want to remember.”
Berthold 12 used his reserves of energy just to get back to his feet. He picked up the heavy limestone slab before the guard could lash him again. He could not recall any day that hadn’t been this litany of labor and torture. He didn’t know when this awful part of his life would end.
The greasy smells and comfortable bustle of the Retro Diner always made him feel at home. Berthold 6 stood by the heat lamps, adjusted his stained white apron, and pulled out a few guest checks. He quickly added up the totals while the short-order cook slopped extravagant nostalgic breakfasts onto warm plates and set them on a shelf. Low-carb pancakes and waffles, minimal-cholesterol eggs, reduced-fat bacon and sausage; such dietary innovations had made the traditional American breakfast into something the trendy customers could once again consume with great gusto.
The Retro Diner, modeled after popular eating establishments of the mid-twentieth century, had silver and chrome fittings, stools and booths upholstered with red naugahyde, table surfaces covered with speckled Formica. The menu featured re-creations of classic products. Many patrons got into the spirit by dressing up in old-fashioned costumes and smoking non-carcinogenic cigarettes. The place had a neighborly feel to it, a celebration of more innocent times. Berthold 6 felt right at home. He wouldn’t have wanted any other job.
Carrying his loaded tray, Berthold 6 made a slight detour to snag the pot of coffee—weak, bitter, regular coffee, not one of the dramatically potent gourmet blends. “Here comes some morning cheer for you and your family, Eddie.”
“Hey, Bert,” said the jolly old man lounging back in his usual booth. “The waitresses around here are getting uglier every day.”
“Yeah, but the waiters are certainly looking fine.”
As the man grinned at the good-natured response, Berthold 6 delivered a stack of strawberry pancakes topped with a swirl of whipped cream, which looked like the eruption of a fruity volcano. He gave a cherry cola to the freckle-faced boy who sat next to his grandfather, refilled coffee cups around the room, then scooped dirty dishes from an unoccupied table into a bus tub.
Berthold 6 enjoyed working with regular folks. He liked serving people. He didn’t earn much money, but enough to get by (though he wished some of his customers wouldn’t tip like it was still 1953). He’d had a busy shift today, and tomorrow was his day off. Since he had no major plans, he thought he’d spend time with a few friends, talking, drinking beer, maybe watching sports or playing a game or two. Berthold 6 wasn’t unduly stressed with the nonsense of unattainable goals or unrealistic ambitions. He was just an everyday guy, working an everyday job. A simple life.
“Order up!” the cook called with a clatter of dishes as he set the next breakfast under the heat lamps.
Before he was escorted off to a glamorous banquet, Candidate Berthold received Mr. Rana in his dressing chambers. The chief advisor brought documents for him to approve and sign. “This will take only a few moments, sir.”
Berthold glanced down at the papers, shuffling from document to document. “Each one needs a signature?”
“Yes.”
“Have they all been read for me?”
“Yes. And all necessary changes have been made.”
“And do I agree with everything they say?”
“The statements are very much in line with your platform, sir.” Rana formed a paternal smile. “You are, however, welcome to read any of them you like—in fact, I encourage it. The experience would be valuable for you.”
Candidate Berthold gave a dismissive wave. “That won’t be necessary. I’m already tired of the incessant paperwork, and I haven’t even been elected yet.” He laboriously began to sign each one. “I’ll have plenty of time to learn after I get into office.”
His head felt as if it would explode from so much information, but his passion for the material did not wane. His brain swelled with facts until all the bones of his skull—twenty-two bones in all, fourteen facial bones, eight cranial bones—seemed to pry apart.
For years Berthold 17 had been studying all aspects of medicine, from surgery to physical therapy to microbiology to anti-aging research. Even with proven teaching aids and somatic memorization devices, he struggled to remember the components of the human body and all the diseases and maladies that could afflict it.
He would be taking his exams in three days. His future depended on his performance for those vital hours.
Not that he had any doubts. He had been born for this. The prospect was daunting, but he always liked challenges. Upon first entering medical school, Berthold 17 made up his mind to become one of the best doctors ever. The higher the hurdles, the more effort he put into meeting them. He took great satisfaction in a reward that he’d earned. He had painted his own finish line and would never look back over his shoulder until he had crossed it. “Good enough” was not in his vocabulary.
Berthold 17 hit the books again, studying, studying. It would be a long night.…
Meanwhile, in another campus library in another state, Berthold 18 sat surrounded by legal tomes, equally convinced that he would pass the upcoming bar exam with flying colors.
They were all dying of Ebola-X.
Berthold 3 could do nothing to save the afflicted villagers, but he forced himself to remain at their sides and comfort the men, wom
en, and children in their final hours. He prayed with them, he listened to them, he comforted them. Not being a doctor, he was unable to do anything else … and even the doctors couldn’t do much.
Ebola-X, a particularly virulent strain of the hemorrhagic plague, had been genetically engineered by a brutal African warlord who, upon being deposed, had unleashed it among his own population. As if their lives weren’t already difficult enough, Berthold 3 thought.
The villagers had impure drinking water, no electricity, no schools, no sanitation. Thanks to a persistent drought, almost certainly caused by the government and its shortsighted agricultural policies, the locals had lived on the edge of starvation for years. Immune systems and physical strength were at their nadir. When the Ebola-X arrived, it mowed down the village population as easily as if it were a jeep full of machine-gun-bearing soldiers. The thought of their situation tugged at his heartstrings. How could a person hold so much pain?
The hot and stifling hospital tent reeked with the stench of sweat, vomited blood, and death. Berthold 3 still heard every gasp, every moan, every death rattle. He sat quietly on a wooden stool, looking at the strained, pain-puckered face of a young mother. He read soothing passages aloud from the Bible, but he didn’t think she could hear him or even understand the flowery English words. But he stayed with her anyway, changing the moist rag from her forehead, holding her shoulders when she needed to roll over and vomit.
The woman seemed to know she was dying. She had communicated with him about her three children, and Berthold 3 promised to look after them. He brushed her wiry hair, cooling her forehead again. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that the children had died two days earlier.
Exhausted medics moved around him like zombies. They had too little medicine, certainly nothing effective against this epidemic. Berthold 3 tried to take as much busywork from the doctors as possible; he felt a calling to do his part, any part, so long as he helped these people. He had some first aid training, but the bulk of his schooling had prepared him to be a missionary, not a medic. Perhaps if he’d known ahead of time, Berthold 3 would have learned more practical skills. Even so, he wouldn’t have turned from this obligation. In his heart he wanted to be here, wishing only that he could ease their suffering more effectively.
The dying woman reached out, her hand extended upward as if trying to grasp the sky. Berthold 3 took it in his own hand, folding his palms around hers and pressing her clenched fist against his chest so that she could feel the beating of his heart. She breathed twice more, arched her back, and then died.
Berthold 3 said a calm prayer over her, then stood. He had no time to rest, no time to grieve. He dragged his wooden stool over to the cot of the next patient.
Red tape. Bureaucracy. Incomprehensible forms in triplicate. Revisions to revisions to procedures that had already been revised repeatedly.
Job security.
Berthold 10 could not pretend his job was interesting, nor could he console himself with the thought that it was necessary. But it was a career, and he was good at it. Few people were so careful or detail-oriented; some of his coworkers called him anal retentive.
He sat in a small cubicle like thousands of others in this governmental office building for the United Cultures of Earth. Berthold 10 processed forms, input data, tracked regulations, and submitted comments and rebuttals to his counterparts in rival departments of the government in other cities around the world.
He was content to be sifting through paperwork in his own tiny cog in a single component of the sprawling wheels of government. It was good to have an understanding of how the details worked, instead of just the Big Picture, which the career politicians saw. Berthold 10 had no aspirations of running for office or being a great leader. He kept his sights on a shorter-term desire for an increase in pay grade. And he was sure to get it, with only a few more years of diligent service.
When the Urgent communiqué appeared in his IN box, Berthold 10 didn’t at first pay special attention. Urgent matters went into a separate stack and he generally made an effort to take care of them first. But when he noticed that this message was addressed to him personally, from the office of the candidate, he read it with puzzlement, then amazement.
He was summoned to the candidate’s mansion at a specified time and date. Berthold 10 looked around his drab cubicle at the never-changing piles of never-changing work. He didn’t know what all this was about, and the letter did not explain. Official escorts would arrive to escort him. He smiled. At last his life was about to become more interesting.
With Mr. Rana beside him to operate the apparatus, Candidate Berthold cradled the head of the final clone in his lap. The man still twitched and struggled—Berthold had forgotten which number this was—but the clutching fingers could not remove the electrodes and transmitters pasted onto his temples and forehead.
“I’m glad this is the last one,” the candidate said. “It’s been an exhausting day.”
One of the clones had struggled violently when the guards brought him in, forcing them to break his forearm. The snapped ulna—ah, the medical knowledge was coming in useful already!—had been unforeseen, but not necessarily a bad thing. In his pampered life Candidate Berthold had never experienced a broken bone; now, after absorbing the clone’s experience, he knew what it felt like.
Memories and thoughts continued to drain out of the last clone’s mind like arterial blood spurting from a slashed throat. The candidate held his duplicate’s shoulders, felt everything surge into his own brain. What a difficult and painful life this one had lived! But the experiences certainly built character, giving him a firm moral foundation and impeccable resolve. It would be an excellent addition to Berthold’s repertoire. Each detail made him more electable.
Since worldwide leaders guided so many diverse people, the citizens of the United Cultures of Earth demanded more and more from their rulers. To win a worldwide election, a candidate needed to demonstrate empathy for a multitude of different tiers of voters, from all walks of life. He had to be both an outsider and an insider. He had to understand privilege, to grasp the overall landscape of the government as well as the minutiae of how the bureaucracy worked. He was expected to have a passion for helping people, a genuine heart for the common man, and a rapport with celebrities and captains of industry.
Such expectations were simply impossible for a single human being to meet. Fortunately, thanks to the mental parity of clones, men such as Berthold Ossequin—and quite certainly all of his opponents—could live many diverse lives in parallel. The clones were turned loose in various situations where they gathered real-life experiences that went far beyond anything Candidate Berthold could have learned from teachers or books.…
The last clone spasmed again, and his face fell completely slack, his mouth hung slightly open. His eyelids fluttered but remained closed. A few final, desperate thoughts trickled into Berthold’s mind.
With a satisfied sigh, he peeled off the transmitter electrodes and motioned for the guards to carry away the limp body. All eighteen of the clones were now vegetables, empty husks wrung dry of every thought and experience. The comatose bodies would be quietly euthanized, and a newly enriched candidate would emerge for the final debates before the elections.
Berthold stood from his chair, completely well-rounded now, full of vicarious memories, tragic events, and pleasant recollections. The chief advisor looked into Berthold’s eyes with obvious pride. “Are you ready, Mr. Candidate?”
Berthold smiled. “Yes. I have all the background I could possibly need to rule the world … though once I get into office, we may decide to continue my education in this manner. Are there more clones?”
“We can always make more, sir.”
“There’s no substitute for experience.”
Berthold stretched his arms and took a deep breath, feeling like a true leader at last. He issued a sharp command to his staff. “Now, let’s go win this election.”
I’m not always grim and seri
ous. This is a humorous twist of some classic science fiction tropes.
Time travel and its associated paradoxes have caused numerous headaches (and generated numerous story ideas) for generations of SF writers. Just imagine the legal troubles all of those paradoxes might cause.
I always intended to write more stories in this series. You may eventually see additional cases from Paradox & Greenblatt.
Paradox & Greenblatt, Attorneys at Law
You might say our little firm specializes in contradictions. In a few years Aaron Greenblatt and I are sure to be millionaire visionaries overloaded with cases, but right now our field of law is still in its infancy. We’ve carved out a new niche, and people are already starting to find us.
Since we can’t afford a receptionist (not yet) Aaron took the call. But because he was up to his nostrils in a corporate lawsuit—a client suing Time Travel Expeditions for refusing to let him go to the late Cretaceous on a dinosaur hunt—he passed the case to me.
“Line one for you, Marty,” he said as I came out of the lav, wiping my hands. “New case on the hook. Simple attempted murder, I think. Guy sounds frantic.”
“They all sound frantic.” I pursed my lips. “Is time travel involved?”
He nodded, and I knew there would be nothing “simple” about the case. Fortunately, temporal complications are right up our firm’s alley. We’re forward-thinkers, my partner and I—and backward-thinkers, when it’s effective. That’s why people call us when nobody else knows what the hell to do.
I picked up the phone and punched the solitary blinking light. “Marty Paramus here. How can I help you?”
The man talked a mile a minute in a thin, squeaky voice; even if he hadn’t been panicked, it probably would have sounded unpleasant. “All I did was try to stop him from buying her some deep-fried artichoke hearts. How could that be construed as attempted murder? They can’t pin anything on me, can they? Why would they think I was trying to kill anybody?”
Selected Stories: Volume 1 Page 27
