AMONE
by Will Sand
© 1999 - All Rights Reserved
With the living room lit only by its aquarium "windows", it seemed more underwater than underground. In that dreamy light Rachel's agitation stood out like a fish fighting a hook. Orson was stretched out on the couch, already landed.
They both knew this appointment was a professional death knell. But whereas his wife was in a rage about it, Orson had lived with the knowledge longer and felt resigned. In fact he was already looking for ways to turn it to his benefit. Always the lawyer....
Rachel had left the view screen frozen on the shocking headline, its persistence taunting them:
"First Alien Ambassador Murders
Vice-President of Reformed States!"They both dreaded tomorrow's inevitable headline:
"Orson Poores Appointed to Defend
Alien Murderer!"Rachel paused in her pacing, almost panting. A superb free-lance researcher known for her objectivity, she was now more biased than a courtroom advocate.
"Why you?!" she demanded, rhetorically. "Why didn't Judge Chism pick one of his cronies? You aren't one of those high profile whores, for whom any publicity is good publicity. He picked you to hurt you!"
"More likely, to not hurt someone else." Orson shrugged. "Someone had to take the hit. No one wants to touch this thing, Rachel. Who knows who tagged Chism himself?" He smiled wistfully, "I'm not popular, not a team player. I've never been expedient or political."
She looked compassionately at her husband. "You've built a careful practice, a career around finding the truth, not merely gauging popular whims."
Yeah, he thought, and around exposing too much window-dressing, embarrassing his peers' smug propriety. He was ripe for this appointment: competent, unconnected, and near retirement age anyway. This would be his last case, win or lose. His reputation would be tainted forever as the lawyer who had defended the alien murderer.
Yet, even now, a part of his mind yearned to launch into this case. He felt challenged in a way he never had before. A gauntlet had been thrown at his feet. But for the moment he just silently watched as his wife vented her anger.
"They're all afraid," she wailed, flailing her arms. "Fat-assed cowards!" She spat the words, glaring at imaginary foes.
Orson felt a small smile threaten his lips. But he repressed it; Rachel might misunderstand his amusement. Her rage preempted his own, allowed him to relax and compose his mind to act rather than react.
He watched his wife as from the sidelines. In her fury, her tidy petiteness was lost. She stormed through the cavernous room, her graying hair backlit, her gait lurching with bursitis. Yet, it was the thirty-year-old Rachel of their courtship that emerged. At times like these, emotionally charged, she regained her youthful vigor and he felt an overwhelming love consume him.
Idly, he wondered how often she could still see the newly-successful forty-year-old in him. Now bald, with an extra thirty pounds on his six-two frame, he sometimes regretted their decision of two decades ago, to forgo the multi-hormones that had just become available. "One-a-day to keep half-the-day away." Indeed, some of his friends did look half his age. And their wives.... Well, the jury was still out. Who knew if one day all their delayed aging wouldn't catch up with them all at once: some vigorous cancer or depleted antagonist or pepped-up pathogen?
He snapped himself out of his reverie when he noticed Rachel staring at him. She had apparently just said something that required a response.
"What?" he inquired lamely.
"I just said," she began, arching her eyebrows, "enough of this railing. I'm going to down-load all I can find about Pramites. Let's get to work!"
As she sat down at the keyboard, Orson realized all anew, for the thousandth time, how lucky he was to have her.
#
Orson Poores was led past bio-barrier after bio-barrier, on his way to see his first Pramite, indeed the only one on earth.
He mentally reviewed the scant information from the police report. It was simple enough. In the middle of a negotiating session, in the presence of a dozen high-level witnesses, the Pramite had calmly gotten up, approached Vice-President Radicavich, the head of the delegation, and struck him a fatal blow to the head. The Pramite had then returned to its seat and patiently waited to be taken into custody.
And that's how Orson found it now: patiently waiting. But for what? Orson wondered. Does it know what's in store for it? Do I?
He had seen numerous images of the Pramite, of course. Nine billion people had. So he thought he knew what to expect. But as he was let into the cell, the Pramite's actual presence surprised him.
First, it appeared shorter than what simply being told four-feet tall had prepared him for. But it was the humanoid's squat power that impressed Orson. Its thick arms reached to the floor, ending in broad three-fingered hands, while its short legs terminated in toe-less cleft feet. The thick torso was humpbacked, with unexpected ridges that didn't conform to a rib pattern. Its skull was over-sized on a very short neck. There were no vestiges of hair or fur anywhere—and everywhere was exposed, as the Pramite was unclothed, protected from the elements by subcutaneous fat and from indecency by the lack of any genitalia, in- or external.
Orson knew that this Pramite, like most of them, was neuter. One in ten was female and only one in a thousand was male. This reproductive strategy was thought to lessen competition and account for the Pramites' reputed non-violence. A bit ironic, considering.
The Pramite was uniformly cream colored, its copious skin lined with furrows and folds. It was from the orbital fold that its eyes now peered at Orson, and mesmerized him. He realized he had been expecting some fierceness there, or perhaps sullenness. Instead, the gaze was gentle, not cowed or furtive or dull, just gentle, with a liveliness that bespoke high intelligence—as if traveling between the stars weren't enough evidence of that.
Its voice box could accommodate a low, rough-sounding English. And it brain a large vocabulary. It grimaced a smile, held out its hand, and proffered a cocktail party introduction.
"Pleased to meet you, councilor. I am known as `AmOne', a familiar abbreviation for my position here, First Ambassador. On Pram, adults assume the name of their profession. Although numbers are only one way to distinguish among subsets—age, status and residency being others—this, like your own system, sometimes fails for redundancy."
It widened its grimaced smile after Orson's own introduction. "Forgive me, Mr. Poores, but I always feel the need to explain my unorthodox name to humans newly met. I would like to offer you some refreshment or comfort, but as you can see..." It waved its nose at the sparse room, in a gesture Orson interpreted as disdainful.
Seated side by side on the slab bed, Orson opened the serious discussion with a single word, "Why?"
AmOne's gaze turned inward for a moment before answering.
"It's important, indeed the whole point, for not only you, but everyone, to understand my reason for having to, very reluctantly, kill one of your leaders." AmOne stared intently at Orson, willing him to understand.
Orson nodded, as the alien seemed to be waiting for some signal before continuing.
"I killed your leader because—" it contracted facial wrinkles into an expression Orson couldn't begin to read,"—he lied to me."
#
Back at home, over coffee, Orson listened to his wife confirm AmOne's reasoning.
"Yes, I discovered that early in my research. Every human culture justifies homicide in some conditions. Self-defense is the most common example. On Pram, lying is justification for pramicide."
She sighed, "Oh, not just some white lie—`Gee, I love that chartreuse dress on you'—but where the lie is meant to deceive, to harm, it's legally acceptable to unilaterally take the life of the liar.
"And you know," she continued, "I can see the sense in that. Lying is at the center of all wrong-doing. So eliminate lying and you've eliminated a whole host of social evils. And with the penalty for lying so severe, it's seldom done, therefore in practice pramicide is almost never invoked."
Orson could tell she was worked up about her findings on Pramite social philosophy. Somehow it irked him. But before he could get a word in edgewise, Rachel was off again.
"It's worked for them," she said, animatedly. "They have virtually no crime. Their various societies have never warred and..."
"Hold on, we're not on Pram," Orson interrupted her. "There's such a thing as diplomatic immunity, but not for political assassination, which is the way this is being perceived by nine billion humans."
Rachel could hear how upset Orson was, how upset the Earth was. She knew he couldn't take this excuse into court and get anywhere. And she agreed: "`When in Rome, do as the Romans.'"
Orson nodded, "Yeah, or go to Roman court..."
Rachel mirrored his grim outlook: "...and get crucified."
#
The case was being rushed. It would be over before anyone on Pram knew anything had even happened. The death penalty was being sought. Yet nobody seemed concerned about the wrath of a technologically superior planet. After all, the Pramites are so pacific, with no history of war. And humans are so reactionary, with no history of aforethought. Or so Orson's thoughts were running this sleepless night.
He was becoming sympathetic to AmOne's circumstances. Sometimes an occupational necessity, here it was born of respect and genuine concern. The alien was honorable without being naive. It knew what it had done and what its action might cost personally. The murder was actually an altruistic act. AmOne expected, knew, it would suffer, perhaps die. But the lesson would be learned: don't deceive a Pramite.
Orson tossed and turned, as sleep eluded him. Rachel slept undisturbed, used to Orson's restlessness the night before a trial was to begin.
He couldn't stop his mind from its tireless rerunning of the alien's motivation...
The Vice-President's delegation had been negotiating for the Pramite Driveless, the means of traveling the stars. Indeed, the delegation had already acquired Driveless technology in trade for what the Pramites wanted: a primeval boreal forest for their private use as a retreat.
It turns out even a non-warring dominant species is hard on a planet. Pram's indigenous forests, the birth-place of the Pramites, were extinct except as pale gardens of their former diverse selves. It was the Pramites' one gross sin, one they couldn't forgive themselves for. They yearned for their lost dark forests.
But the forests the Vice-President turned over to them were not unencumbered. He neglected to mention that the timber and mineral rights were not divested by the bi-planetary agreement. The Pramites could enjoy exclusive recreational use of the forests, but commercial uses of the lands were not transferred. Eventually, the sanctuary value of the forests to the Pramites, as pristine environments, would be degraded.
When AmOne pointed out this oversight to the Vice-President, the latter merely shrugged his shoulders, and referred AmOne to the written agreement's finer print. The fact that timber and mineral rights were not expressly conveyed meant that they were retained by the government.
The deception by the Vice-President propelled the alien to its murderous act.
Orson turned onto his other side, glancing at the clock. With only three hours left before he must get up, the tendrils of sleep still drifted beyond his grasp. He sighed and proceeded to reexamine his defense. As his first step, he would have to get the judge to remove the all-too-honest alien from the courtroom....
#
The narrow windows of the new courtroom were too high to divert attention from the proceedings, but they were a constant reminder of the structure's premier status. Nowadays, building above-ground in a city center required dismantling, hauling and disposal costs for the previous skyscraper. And that meant money, which meant power, which has always meant trouble—for someone. Furthermore, the judge's dais, despite its advanced electronic clutter, still proclaimed the age-old psychological advantage of the elevated.
But Orson Poores had been in rooms of this sort and before people of this sort too often to be awed. Still, there was a part to be played here and he knew when to defer to tradition and ego.
He approached the bench with his hands spread in supplication.
"Your honor, may I request that we go off record?"
"This better be good, Mr. Poores."
The judge switched off all cameras, including the media ones. Dark screens rolled down, covering a dozen discreet portals. Orson and the prosecutor, with the presence of the court recorder, then conferred with the judge, out of ear-shot from the only other beings currently in the room, the Pramite and a bailiff.
The ninety-nine off-site jurors could use these vacant minutes to review instructions or previous testimony, by simply entering a search function. Their screens would automatically convert to the real-time courtroom when the judge so arranged.
The jurors were chosen randomly, with no selection process. They would never leave their homes, never deliberate with, or even see, each other. To assure their continued vigilance, each member of the jury was monitored during the trial by a camera built into the compact mobile jury box. A two-thirds majority ruled. On those rare occasions where that wasn't achieved, the jury was ordered to review the tapes and re-think the case. If a second vote also proves inconclusive, a new jury would be impaneled to examine the tapes, and so on. New trials were vanishingly rare.
Now, Orson cleared his throat and prepared to urge the judge to remove the alien from the courtroom. The prosecutor would have no objection to the proposal.
Orson knew his request was unusual and would take some explanation.
"Your honor, you know the alien's self-professed reason for this killing, which it doesn't deny committing."
"Yes, I understand that where deception is perceived, the Pramites feel justified in homicide. Well, Mr. Poores, we don't."
"That's just my point, your Honor. If AmOne hears any lie in the courtroom, and you have to agree that's been known to happen, it may react violently again. Indeed, my very plea of `not guilty' may set it off, who knows? It understands it is very guilty under our laws, if not its own."
"So, Mr. Poores, what would you have me do? Are you advocating I display your defendant in restraints before the jury cameras?"
"No, your Honor. Simply that you remove my defendant from the courtroom for the duration of the trial, which should be short, given the limits on my defense."
"Granted. Just remember those limits on your defense. Neither `ignorance of the law' nor `insanity' will be entertained by this court."
"Certainly, your Honor. My client is anything but ignorant or insane."
#
Orson walked back to detention with the Pramite, sort of a courtesy. They were led by two guards.
He felt funny about this and tried to offer some kind of explanation.
"It's just best if you aren't present, AmOne. You see, our system of justice embarrasses us." Not much of an explanation, but it was truthful enough.
AmOne didn't comment. When they got to the cell, however, it was apparent the Pramite felt there was more to explain, and they had another of their strange conversations.
"We," it started out, "Humans and Pramites, want different things. But we both want. We both hunt.
"From the basic—food, shelter, sex—to the superfluous—money, drugs, pornography—to the sublime—art, honor, love—the hunt is what counts. When you stop hunting, you stop living.
"What we hunt for is our past. Our forests. We miss yesterday."
AmOne looked up, engaging Orson's eye.
"This trial, Orson—What do you hunt for?"
Orson frowned, as he pondered an appropriate answer. "Truth" would be too self-congratulatory. "Victory", too cynical. He settled for "Tomorrow," with its blend of irony, assertiveness and ambiguity.
And walked away, before the Pramite could ask him to explain that.
Behind him he heard AmOne's rasping Pramite chuckle. "Whoever said you don't use 90% of your brains was only using 10% of theirs."
#
Bing Shateau was enjoying himself. And why shouldn’t he? If this wasn’t the high point of his career, it was because this case would catapult him to heights greater than those inhabited by mere federal prosecutors.
Orson sat back and tried not to look defeated. He listened as the fifth witness, as impeccable as each of his predecessors, answered the same straight-forward questions.
"Mr. Anway, as Minister of Trade, you had a prominent role in the meeting of January 28th last, is that correct?"
"Indeed, I did."
"And you were seated next to the late Vice President, were you not?"
"Yes, I was on his left."
"Did you witness the circumstances of the Vice President’s murder?"
Orson perfunctorily objected, without enthusiasm.
The judge looked taken aback. "To what exactly do you object, Mr. Poores?"
"To the characterization of the act in question as ‘murder’. That term has a number of elements which have not yet been established."
The judge waved his hand resignedly. "Sustained."
He might as well have rolled his eyes, Orson thought. He could just imagine how this was looking to the jury. Why did the alien even plead not guilty?! It might as well plead not short and ugly.
The prosecutor was smiling paternally down at Orson. He turned back to his distinguished witness. "Please describe the events leading to the Vice President’s death." He looked back at Orson and raised his eyebrows, as if to question whether the word ‘death’ too was objectionable to his precise colleague.
Orson simply looked back casually, and kept that expression intact during the remainder of the damaging testimony.
Mr. Anway shrugged his shoulders. "After a routine discussion of some contractual terms, the alien ambassador known as AmOne stood up from its position at the opposite end of the table and calmly approached the Vice President, who smiled and offered his hand. The alien then very deliberately raised its arm and struck him on the head, just the once, and returned to his seat, where he remained composed until arrested."
"Thank you, Mr. Amway. That is all."
Orson stood up, as he had four previous times, and announced, "I have no questions of this witness, your Honor."
"The prosecution rests its case, your Honor."
"Then the witness is excused. We will hear the defense’s case tomorrow, 10:00 AM."
Orson remained seated as the courtroom emptied and the cameras were shuttered. He took a deep breath. Well, he thought, we certainly know what happened. Now we need to decide what to call it.
#
Orson called his only witness, a medical examiner with whom he had consulted before. Dr. Weblock had had plenty of experience testifying and his sonorous voice captured the perfect balance between authority and affability. Currently he was using a laser pointer on the defense's only exhibit.
"Look at this schema of the Pramite skull. It's 50% thicker than our own. That translates as four times as impervious to direct blows."
Orson nodded thoughtfully. "And, Doctor Weblock, have you had the opportunity to study the County Medical Examiner's report on the Vice-President's autopsy? I am particularly referring to the official estimate of the force applied to the skull."
Dr. Weblock cleared his voice and turned to the jury camera. "Yes, my team and I spent quite a lot of time on that study. From the size of the crack and the state of the soft tissue, that is, the brain, specifically the contrecoup effects thereupon, a very precise estimate can be made of the striking force to the head. The result is expressed in ergs of energy necessary to achieve such and such pounds of pressure per square inch."
He gave a slight shrug and smiled. "Now that `ergs of energy' is neither here nor there, as far as this case goes." He quickly shifted gears, adopting a serious, confidential demeanor. "However, the impact force, that `pounds per square inch', is most informative."
Orson stepped closer, as if he didn't know what was going to be said and dared not miss a word. "And why is that, Doctor?"
Dr. Weblock tilted his head pensively, almost sadly, "Because that measured striking force, if directed at a Pramite skull, would not," he paused, fixing his blue eyes on the jury camera and raising his voice, "...not have been sufficient to kill, or even concuss, another Pramite."
"Thank you, Doctor."
#
Rachel was watching the trial unfold from their oval bedroom. Merely by observing the changes in her expression over the past two hours, one could correctly gauge the course of events. From early scowls, to vigorous nodding, to open smiles, and finally an exclaimed "YEAH!", she mirrored her husband's successes.
But now, after the announcement that the Pramite would be returned to the courtroom for final verdict, she experienced a sudden panicked revelation. She continued to listen to the TV as she quickly dressed.
The court would be in recess until after lunch and the TV announcer was interviewing a popular courtroom commentator.
"So, Ms. Rory, what do you think of today's events so far?'
"Adam, it's nothing short of astonishing. A great piece of defense work by Orson Poores. I know this is the first the general public has heard of him, but he has had a brilliant, if quiet, career these last three decades. Sadly, I've learned this will be his last case. I fear he was not quite ready to retire yet, but the notoriety of this case, especially now that the Pramite will walk, will make Mr. Poores a pariah in the minds of many. It's a shame really."
"The Pramite will be acquitted, then, in your opinion."
"Certainly. Mr. Poores has removed one of the necessary elements of any murder charge, that of intent. There is ample room for reasonable doubt that AmOne had intended to kill the Vice-President, considering the blow delivered was far less than would have killed a fellow Pramite. Perhaps, AmOne simply didn't realize how fragile we are.
"Oh," she continued, with a dismissive wave, "AmOne will be found guilty of a lesser charge, some degree of manslaughter, or perhaps assault, but diplomatic immunity will excuse any such relatively minor charge."
"I imagine this has been some day for the prosecution."
Ms. Rory smiled, "Adam, I guarantee you they are livid."
The announcer frowned. "So too is the vast majority of the public."
"You're right, Adam. In the minds of many, this is yet another bad day for our court system. But it's not just the justice department that will suffer. In many ways, this is the worst possible outcome for Pram/Earth relations. AmOne will certainly be recalled and any AmTwo will have a most difficult time mending fences. Talk about a public relations disaster. By the time..."
Rachel waved off the TV and rushed to the house elevator. She had to get to the courthouse before AmOne heard the verdict.
#
But Rachel was too late. As she ran down the corridor to the courtroom, struggling past reporters and the unemployed curious, the doors burst open and AmOne emerged, surrounded by a phalanx of sheriff deputies.
With the turmoil, it took her nearly five minutes to gain entry and fall into the arms of her husband.
"I thought, feared," she began weeping, "...AmOne, it would be angry... you lied..."
Orson sat her down and held her. "Yeah, I thought of that, too. AmOne knew I knew it had intended to kill the Vice-President. Its acquittal is a diplomatic nightmare. The ready-made Pramite solution would be to kill me.
"That," he continued, "would certainly drive home its point that Pramites do not tolerate material lies. Equally important it would assure AmOne's execution, which would go a long way toward healing relations between our two planets. Negotiations could resume with an Am-two, and no one would ever again consider cheating or taking advantage of a Pramite."
Rachel wiped her eyes. "So, why didn't AmOne kill you—or someone."
"Well, first of all, no one else had lied or done anything else that a Pramite might consider justification for homicide. As for me, I anticipated AmOne's possible reaction and headed it off. I accompanied the bailiffs when they were sent to bring AmOne to the courtroom for the reading of the verdict. I asked for a few private moments with my client and spoke to AmOne—through the bio-barrier.
"I explained what I had done, the result, and why I had done it. AmOne understood that my lie was not done maliciously in any way. I explained I felt it was truly innocent and that its actions had earned, if not my outright approval, at least my sympathy. I also expressed my admiration for its forthrightness and offered my friendship.
"Finally, I asked AmOne if it intended to kill or injure me for my actions. I knew I could trust its answer.
"It said, `No; you are a valued friend. My return to Pram will not be one of disgrace or failure. My behavior here will be understood and appreciated. My actions were correct and my assessment failed only in that I didn't realize how you humans vary so in your motivations, intentions and abilities. Orson, I didn't anticipate your ingenuity or your virtue. I thank you for upgrading my erstwhile unhappy view of your species.'"
Rachel beamed at her husband, her eyes wetting again. "Well, that was a nice ending, after all."
Orson frowned, "That wasn't quite the ending, which wasn't quite so nice."
When he hesitated, Rachel nudged him in the ribs. "So... What??"
Orson was oddly reluctant to continue. "I hope I did the right thing... I mean, just to be safe... what's best for everyone..." He fell silent and began fidgeting with the contents of his briefcase.
"Don't make me apply 200 pounds per square inch to your cranium," Rachel nervously laughed. What had he done? She was beginning to be afraid to find out. She had never seen him so unsure of himself.
Orson looked her in the eye. "I'm not a traitor," he started. "I did what was necessary."
Rachel looked away, blinking. For the moment, sunlight emblazoned the high emblem over the judge's bench.
She turned back to her husband and squeezed his hand. "I know you didn't do anything wrong."
He nodded. "Okay. I told AmOne, now that we humans have the Driveless, the Pramites had better next negotiate for—or learn to develop—a weapons technology."
Rachel hung her head in mute agreement.
Will Sand is a retired chiropractor living on the central coast of California. He has been published in Aberrations, Ultimate Unknown, and online (Dark Planet, Twilight Times, Exodus, Blue Pages, Antipodean and Ibn Qirtaiba). His body as old as the President's and his website as new as the millennium. (Please visit http://www.redshift.com/~wsandtt/)