Nicole checked the time on her wrist computer, trying to ignore the quick flash of irritation. She had barely left the helicopter and been ushered into Central Control before the Major had slapped a new wrist computer on her arm. It was all done very cordially, but the Major’s underlying nervousness at her bare arm was evident.
They had not finished at Central Control until nearly 6:00 A.M. Then Travis had brought her home, and she had collapsed into an exhausted sleep for five hours. Now the dread of what was coming lay heavy on her mind.
Frowning, she limped to her closet, reached in, and had her dress uniform half off the hanger when she stopped. For a long moment she stood there indecisively; then, with a quick shake of her head, she put it back and took out a tailored, navy-blue blazer and gray skirt and dressed quickly. As she buttoned the last button and peered at herself in the mirror, the doorbell chimed.
“Come in,” she called loudly.
“Hi, honey,” Travis called through the shattered door to her bedroom. “Are you ready?”
“Almost. I just need to put on my shoes.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
The memory of Eric standing before her with her tennis shoes flashed into her mind. “No,” she called out quickly. Then more slowly, “No, I’m all right. I’ll be just a moment.”
Travis, in full dress uniform, looked trim and fresh, as though he had not been up half the night rescuing girls from mountain campsites. He stood up and started toward her as she came into the living room. “You look lovely, Nicole…” His eyes dropped to note her clothes, and his voice trailed off.
“But?” she supplied for him.
“But the Major said we were to wear our uniforms. He said so this morning, just before we left. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember.” Her eyes met his calmly.
“Then…” He was obviously flustered, but he quickly recovered. “Whatever. You really do look lovely.” He swept her into his arms, crutches and all, and bent down to kiss her. She stood motionless, accepting it dutifully.
“I am glad you’re back home.”
“Me too.” She pulled away. “My purse is there on the desk. If you’d carry it for me, I’ll see if I can’t get the hang of these crutches.”
“Of course.” He retrieved her purse and moved to hold the door for her. As she came alongside him she stopped and looked up, searching the depths of his face. “Travis?”
“Yes?”
“Is this really a trial, or is it to be a public execution?”
“An execution?” He gave a short laugh. “Of course not. The Major just wants the citizens of Shalev to see what happens to those who try to overthrow our society. Dr. Cameron will be punished but not executed.”
“Can you promise that?”
“I guarantee it. Now let’s get going, or we’ll be late.”
As they entered the dressing room under the grandstand of the stadium, Nicole stopped short. The Major stood nearly hidden in a cluster of blue and orange uniforms, but as she and Travis entered, a sudden hush fell over the room; then the group broke into a babble of welcome and congratulations. Clayne Robertson was the first to reach her. “Welcome back, Nicole.”
She pulled her eyes away from the Major, who was staring at her. “Hello, Clayne.”
“When I told Adrienne you’d been found, she cried. She’s been worried sick about you. The kids too. They remember you in their prayers every night.”
Her eyes softened and she smiled. “They’re sweet.”
“You up to a good dinner tonight, or do you want to recuperate for a couple of days first?”
“I’d like that. I’m going to Mount Pleasant tomorrow, to stay with my aunt and rest up. But after almost a week of camp food, Adrienne’s cooking sounds wonderful.”
His eyes dropped to her foot. “Eric do that?” he rumbled, his mouth tightening.
“No, I—” Suddenly she didn’t want to try to explain with everyone listening. “I had my shoes off and stepped on a sharp rock.”
“Good. I kept telling Adrienne that Eric wouldn’t harm you. I—”
“Nicole?”
Clayne stepped back as the Major approached.
“Yes, sir?” Unconsciously she hitched the crutches back a little to make herself stand up straighter.
“Again, welcome back.” His eyes flicked down to her clothes and then back to lock into hers. One eyebrow raised slightly. “We’re so glad everything has worked out to bring you back safely.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He glanced at his wrist computer and turned around briskly. “It’s 12:55. Bring out the prisoner.”
Every head swung to face the corridor leading to the equipment room, where Cliff Cameron had been kept under guard.
Cliff emerged first, walking easily, his head erect. He was dressed in a navy blue suit, long sleeved white shirt with gold cuff links, and maroon tie. With his wavy gray hair and craggy features, he looked every inch the distinguished brain surgeon he had once been. A step behind him came another man, also in a suit and carrying a briefcase, and Nicole assumed this was his attorney. As they came out into the dressing room area and Cliff turned to face the Major, Nicole saw the fresh bandage at the back of his neck.
Suddenly he turned and saw her. A smile broke out across the somber face, and he stepped quickly to her. “Ah, Nicole. I heard you had gotten away from Eric. I’m glad. I haven’t felt good about that whole thing from the very beginning.”
Before she could respond, the Major cut in curtly. “Dr. Cameron, it’s time to go. If you would follow me, please.”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes still on Nicole. “As we used to say in the old days, ‘On with the show.’”
As the group walked out into the bright sunshine, the silence of the crowd was almost stifling in its intensity. For one quick moment Nicole wondered about Eric. Had he made it down? Was he here? But then she saw the numerous orange uniforms scattered throughout the crowd and posted at nearly every exit, and she knew he could not have made it in, even if he had made it down from the mountain.
The procession of prisoner, lawyer, and Guardians proceeded to the center of the field, where some risers provided a platform about thirty feet by thirty feet. Several rows of chairs had been placed in front of it. On the platform were three tables, one large and imposing, two smaller ones side by side in front of the big one. To the left of the large table was a single row of chairs. A television camera crew was perched on the one corner of the platform, filming as the procession approached.
Nicole saw a second group of people, men and women, coming from the visiting-team tunnel. As she sat next to Clayne, they filed past and sat on the back row of chairs on the platform.
“Who are they?” she whispered.
“That’s the jury. The first jury to hear a criminal case in the history of Shalev.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, would you please rise?”
The Major spoke into a microphone in front of the risers as Travis escorted Clifford Cameron and his attorney to the first small table on the platform, then joined another man at the second table. Nicole assumed the man next to Travis was the prosecuting attorney. Behind them, the jury sat quiet and soberfaced.
Slowly, reluctantly, almost rebelliously, twenty thousand people came to their feet in response to the Major’s command. If he noticed their reticence, he gave no sign. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Honorable Judge Lorenzo R. Bradford, who will be presiding at these proceedings.”
From the row in front of Nicole a man stood, clothed in long black robes, and moved to take his seat at the center table on the platform.
“You may be seated.”
The sound of the crowd settling back onto their seats was a soft rustle, but no other noise could be heard—no talking, no laughter, no cheering, no cries of disappointment—none of the sounds that were so typical of this stadium. As Nicole peered upward at the people, then dropped her eyes to study the Major and those on the stand, she felt a sudden bitterness. This isn’t a trial. Cliff was right. Before it had ever begun, he had known. It was a show. A well-staged, manipulated event.
And then as she scanned the sullen faces of the crowd, she understood, and knew the Major understood as well. It was a show, and the show was for them—for every one of them who had asked himself the question, “What will I do if Eric Lloyd and his men ask me to join them?” Television coverage alone was not sufficient to answer that question. Only a live demonstration, where the shock and reality would be undiluted, would suffice. And then the Major spoke and pulled her thoughts away from the crowd.
“Citizens of Shalev.” His voice gave the impression of one caught in sudden mourning. “For the first time in our eighteenyear history, we begin a trial—not the first civil trial, for we are still human and have had to work out our differences with the aid of the courts and counselors and legal processes—no, for the first time, we convene to conduct a criminal trial. And I cannot fully express the inner feelings that tear at me now. How many times in all of history has mankind gone eighteen years without a single criminal action? How many times have they gone two decades without crime, violence, or unrestrained passion?”
He half turned so that he could see Dr. Clifford Cameron. “Now, for the first time we have had violence, we have had killing, we have had treason. One of the men responsible for that breach of history is here now. He must answer for robbing us of our chance to extend that remarkable, unequalled record of peace and security and harmony to three decades, or four. Or even a century. That was my dream.”
The two men locked gazes, the Major’s expression a mixture of sadness and anger, Dr. Cameron’s one of curious amusement.
The Major turned back. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will now proceed with the case of the Alliance of Four Cities versus Dr. Clifford C. Cameron.”
Judge Lorenzo R. Bradford smacked his gavel against the table and leaned forward into the microphone in front of him. “Will the defendant and his counsel rise and approach the bench?”
Cliff and his attorney stood and came around to stand before him. Travis also stood, unhooked the microphone on his table, and handed it to Cliff’s attorney.
“None of us have a lot of precedence for conducting a trial of this nature,” the judge continued, “so we shall proceed as best we know how.”
He picked up a long sheet of paper before him. “Dr. Clifford C. Cameron, you stand here today accused of the following charges: eight counts of high treason through the illegal removal of the implantations of citizens of the Alliance of Four Cities; six counts of aggravated assault; six counts of illegal manufacture, possession, and use of high explosives; three counts of illegal possession and use of dangerous weapons; four counts of conspiracy to commit treason; and one count of being an accessory to forcible abduction and kidnapping.”
He leaned back in his chair, his face grave. “Those are the charges. Do you understand them?”
Nicole saw Cliff nod, but heard no answer. “I’m sorry, Dr. Cameron, but would you speak into the microphone. Would you repeat your answer, please?”
As his attorney held the microphone up to him, Cliff’s voice boomed out over the speakers in the stadium. “Yes, your Honor, I understand the charges.”
“And how do you plead?”
“To these particular charges?”
“Of course.”
“Guilty.”
Nicole’s head jerked up as a gasp of surprise swept the stadium. “No,” she whispered.
“What was that again?” the judge said, leaning forward in his chair.
“I said guilty. I plead guilty to the charges read.”
Cliff’s attorney stepped forward and took the microphone. “Your Honor, may I speak?”
“Yes.”
“Your Honor—” He paused, evidently as stunned as everyone else. “I don’t think my client fully understands the implications of what he’s saying. He doesn’t—”
Cliff gently took the microphone back. “Your Honor, I appreciate Mr. Wingate’s concern, but I do fully understand what I am doing. The Major, in his opening address, charged me with trying to overthrow peace, introduce violence, foster crime. Now if those were the charges, I would plead not guilty and defend myself vigorously. But you said I am charged with operating on people and taking out their implantations, with using weapons and explosives,” he shot Nicole a quick glance, “in aiding and abetting in a kidnapping. To those charges I must plead guilty.”
“Well…” The judge gave the Major a searching look, pleading for help.
Cliff continued, his voice amiable and friendly. “Does there have to be a trial now? I mean, do we still need to call witnesses, argue the case, all of that?”
“Well, I—no, I mean, I guess not. If you refuse to deny your guilt, I guess we just—sentence you.”
Again the judge glanced at the Major, who nodded curtly.
“Good.” Cliff turned and surveyed the crowd, then looked up at the sky. “Well then, your Honor, Major Denison was kind enough to give all these good people half a day off from work. It’s a hot day. Instead of sitting here sweltering in the sun, why don’t you hurry and pronounce sentence and leave them some time to catch a swim or take a picnic to the lake or something.”
As a startled wave of laughter swept through the crowd, punctuated with shouts of approval and a smattering of applause, Nicole stared at Cliff Cameron, and suddenly her eyes were swimming.
“What do you say, your Honor?”
Totally bewildered, the judge again turned to the Major for support, and again Nicole saw the almost imperceptible nod of the head.
He cleared his throat quickly. “Well, then. Since the defendant pleads guilty to all charges—uh—I guess we’re ready to pass sentence. Would the defendant please—oh, yes, you’re already standing.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Dr. Clifford C. Cameron, as the judge over these proceedings, I hereby sentence you to be remanded into the custody of the Guardians. Stage Three implantation is hereby declared permanent.”
Clayne whispered into Nicole’s ear, “They knew what the sentence would be before this ever happened.” The disgust in his voice was evident.
“And also,” the judge intoned, “you are to be placed in a confinement cell for the rest of your natural life.”
Once again the sudden intake of twenty thousand pairs of lungs caused a rippling of sound across the stadium. Nicole felt the tears well over and trickle down her cheeks as Cliff Cameron nodded.
“That concludes this trial,” the judge said, banging his gavel. “Court is adjourned.” Cliff nodded again, then turned and walked back to his seat, leaving his attorney staring at him.
In an instant the Major was up and to the microphone in front of the platform. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The babble of noise quickly died, and the people sank back into their seats. “We want to express our thanks to Judge Lorenzo R. Bradford and to the jury members, who, fortunately, were not needed today.” His voice was tinged with a hardness Nicole had heard only once or twice before.
“The accused now becomes the convicted, by his own confession.” He turned to look at Dr. Cameron. His hand came up and covered the microphone, and Nicole heard his savage whisper. “Travis!”
Even as Travis came off the platform to join him, the Major was back at the microphone. “Dr. Cameron has graciously suggested that we cut these proceedings short. We shall do that, only delaying you a moment or so longer.”
Again his hand came over the mike, and Nicole leaned forward, straining to hear what he said as a low murmur of disappointment rippled through the crowd. “Travis, get on your radio and patch us in to Central Control. I want a direct radio link with the Monitoring Room.”
The Monitoring Room! Nicole stared, the first glimmer of horror pushing against her stomach.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Major said smoothly, even as Travis, obviously caught off guard, unhooked his radio and began speaking into it. “It appears that while Dr. Cameron has confessed his guilt, he has exhibited no real remorse. And it may even be that some of you are thinking that his punishment is not all that bad. Confinement for life is a depressing thought, but considering that he tried to overthrow our entire society, the magnitude of the crime seems to demand a more severe punishment.”
He glanced over at Travis, who nodded. Up came the hand, and once again the microphone was covered so the crowd did not hear the exchange. But Nicole and those around her heard it clearly. “Tell them to stand by on Dr. Cameron’s frequency. I want them prepared to give me ten percent increments of his Punishment Mode on my signal.”
Several members of the press corps and the television crew audibly gasped, and next to her, Clayne Robertson started in his chair. Nicole stared numbly, knowing better than any of them what the Major was up to.
“Travis! That’s an order!” The Major’s voice snapped out like a rifle shot, and Travis flinched. Then slowly, he lifted the radio to his mouth.
“Under no circumstances are they to exceed eighty percent of the maximum. I don’t want him killed. Tell them that!”
“Yes, sir!”
The Major swung back to the microphone, and his eyes scanned the rows of faces staring down at him. “Some of you may think that Dr. Cameron has gotten off easily, but that is only because you do not fully understand what Stage Three implantation entails. Few people in Shalev have it, and so relatively few of you have seen its effects. Perhaps a demonstration is in order. Travis, if you’d hand me the radio, please.”
The walkie-talkie changed hands slowly. “Now, will you go up and stand by Dr. Cameron. Hold the microphone for him. I wish the people to hear whatever he has to say.”
As Travis moved back onto the platform, Cliff stood up slowly. He licked his lips once, then straightened and squared his shoulders. His right hand came up slowly until it touched his forehead, and with dignity he saluted the crowd.
“Ten percent!” the Major said quickly into the radio.
Cliff gave an involuntary gasp, and his arm jerked away from his forehead, but he forced it back, biting his lip to stop the violent trembling of his upper body.
“Twenty!”
A sharp cry was torn from Cliff’s lips as he dropped to his knees and grabbed his head with both hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what you are now witnessing is only twenty percent of the Punishment Mode under Stage Three implantation.” He turned and looked at the trembling figure. “Dr. Cameron, are you ready to express regret for your crimes?”
“No.” The word was barely audible, but Travis had lowered the microphone to the kneeling figure so that it was touching Cliffs lips, and his answer went booming out over the speakers.
“Thirty percent!” the Major commanded.
Cliff screamed in agony as Nicole clamped her eyes shut, her fingernails biting into the flesh of her palms.
“Fifty!” The Major’s voice was an angry bellow. “Now, Dr. Cameron, now are you ready to speak to us?”
“Yes! Yes, oh help me! Yes! Please, yes!”
“Cut the power,” the Major said quickly, nodding in satisfaction.
A great sob of relief echoed out of the body that suddenly collapsed and went limp.
“Travis,” the Major said, now fully composed again, “will you help Dr. Cameron up? I believe he is ready to make a statement now.”
Travis’s arm went around Cliffs waist. He was trembling so violently that he could not stand alone. Travis helped him to his feet, heavily supporting him. Cliffs eyes were bulging and he was gasping for breath as Travis held the microphone to his lips.
For a long moment the only sound in the air was the tortured rasping of his breath. Then suddenly his head came up. “Eric!”
It was a cry of such anguish that it tore through Nicole and went bouncing off the grandstands in echoes that would haunt her forever. “Eric, don’t give up! Help free this people!”
For a split second the Major stared, his mouth open in stunned surprise. Then his hand flew up, jamming the radio to his mouth. “Eighty percent!” he screamed hoarsely. “Eighty percent capacity! Now!”
Cliff’s body jerked so violently that he was torn out of Travis’s grip, as though hit at point-blank range with a high-powered rifle. One long scream rent the summer air before Cliff collapsed into a crumpled heap at Travis Oakes’s feet.
For a full ten seconds there was not a sound in the stadium. Every eye was riveted on the still form on the platform in the center of the field. Then suddenly, high up in the center bleachers, a man leaped to his feet. In the stillness his voice echoed like a pistol shot, the sarcasm twisting it into a mocking cry. “Let’s hear it for Major Denison and the Guardians,” he shouted, “keepers of the peace, protectors of our freedom.”
And then he began to clap his hands. Almost instantly someone else leaped up, and then another. Like gasoline vapors ignited by sparks from a torch, twenty thousand people exploded, leaping to their feet. There was no open anger, for years of instantaneous punishment had long ago flattened such responses. But they were up, pounding their hands, many of the women with tears streaming down their cheeks, paying tribute to the crumpled figure on the stand, and, as openly as they dared, rejecting the man who had put him there. The sound rolled down out of the stands in a smashing wave, engulfing the small group of people standing in the center of the soccer field. Nicole stared straight ahead, seeing nothing because of the burning in her eyes.