“Give him a fair trial, at least,” Theo said, getting off the desk, rubbing his bruised hip.
Dorn was still standing perfectly motionless, unmoved, like a statue, like a man awaiting execution.
George took a step back, sagged onto the edge of his desk. “Dorik Harbin,” he muttered, his chest heaving.
“Go ahead and kill me,” Dorn said. “I deserve it.”
“That’d be just as bad as he was,” Theo repeated.
“We’ll have a fookin’ trial, all right,” George said darkly. Going back to his chair and thumping heavily into it, he called to his desktop communicator, “Security. Send a squad to my office to take a prisoner into custody.”
Only then did anyone notice that Elverda had sunk back into her chair, her face gray, gasping for breath.
Elverda opened her eyes. She saw that she was in a hospital cubical. The lights were turned down low; the compartment smelled clean, brand new, as if it had just been opened for her. A faint beeping sound made her turn her head toward the bank of monitoring sensors lining the wall to her left.
I must have fainted, she realized. The pain was less now. Almost gone. But she could still feel it throbbing deep inside her like a lurking demon.
She tried to sit up and the bed automatically lifted behind her. She saw a shadowy figure in the compartment’s only chair.
“Dorn?” she whispered.
The cyborg stirred out of sleep. His human eye opened; the other one glowed red in the dimly lit chamber.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
Elverda considered the question for a moment. “Not bad,” she said, then added with a sardonic smile, “considering the condition I’m in.”
“You haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Dorn reached for a remote control wand on the bedside table and the lights came up a little.
The sullen pain in her chest notched up a bit, and the sensors’ beeping quickened.
“The doctors say you need to go to Selene for a full rebuilding of your heart,” Dorn told her.
I’d never survive the trip, Elverda said to herself. Aloud, though, she asked Dorn, “I thought you were under arrest.”
He nodded. “There are two armed guards outside your door. I go on trial tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Elverda felt a pang of alarm. The monitors beside her bed changed their tone slightly. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Not quite thirty-six hours. The rock rats move swiftly. George Ambrose wants the trial held right away.”
“I’ll speak for your defense.”
“No need. I don’t want a defense. They have every right to execute me.”
“No!” she snapped. And the monitors’ beeping pitched still higher. “They may have a right to execute Dorik Harbin, but he’s already dead.”
Dorn almost smiled. “Not dead enough,” he muttered.
THE TRIAL
It took less than forty-eight hours for Big George to arrange for the trial of Dorik Harbin.
Dorn stood alone in a darkened video studio, bathed in a pool of light. In the shadows armed security guards ringed the cyborg while communications technicians operated a trio of video cameras, all focused on Dorn. The technicians’ monitors showed that every citizen of
The etched metal of the prosthetic half of his face glinted in the pitiless glare of the overhead lights. From his office, Big George read the charge against Dorik Harbin: one thousand, one hundred seventeen counts of murder.
“Do you admit that you deliberately killed the inhabitants of the original
“I do,” said Dorn.
“What d’you have to say in your defense?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” Dorn repeated.
Suddenly there was a hubbub in the darkness beyond the pool of light in which Dorn stood. A door swung open and Elverda Apacheta rolled herself to his side, sitting in a powered wheelchair.
“I have something to say in the defense of this man,” she announced. Dorn saw that her pallor was still sickly gray; an oxygen tube was hooked to her nostrils; her eyes were rimmed with red.
Before Dorn could stop her, Elverda struggled to her feet and said, “This is not the same man who attacked your habitat. Dorik Harbin has been dead for many years now. This man, Dorn, has spent those years atoning for the sins of Dorik Harbin.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Big George’s voice spat. “The only question here is whether or not he murdered the people of
Dorn and Elverda saw a screen light up on the wall before them. Numbers flickered, too fast to follow.
Finally the numbers stopped. Big George’s voice announced, “It’s almost unanimous. The verdict is guilty.”
“No!” Elverda gasped. Dorn rested his human hand on her frail shoulder.
“Now for the penalty,” George went on, sounding as implacable as an avalanche. “We’ve never executed anybody before, but if ever a man deserved the death sentence, this is the one. How do you vote—”
“Wait!” Elverda shouted. Dorn could feel her trembling beneath his hand. “You don’t need to kill him. You can exile him. You’ve done that before: permanent exile for criminals. Exile this man if you want to, but don’t kill him!”
“What he’s done deserves more than exile,” Big George’s voice boomed. “He should never have the chance to hurt anybody again. Death!”
“He’ll never return here,” Elverda promised, shuddering, almost breathless. “Exile him. Don’t stain your hands with his blood.”
For long moments there was no reply; only profound silence. At last, his voice a low growl, George responded, “All right then, we’ll vote on it. Execution or exile.”
Dorn slid his arm around Elverda’s bone-thin shoulders to support her as the electronic vote was swiftly tabulated on the wall screen. She slumped against him, her strength almost gone.
Once the numbers stopped scrolling across the screen, they read sixty-seven percent in favor of exile, thirty-one percent for execution, two percent abstaining.
At last the voice of Big George Ambrose came through the speakers, like a pronouncement from the heavens:
“The vote’s been verified. Dorik Harbin is hereby exiled from
George sounded very disappointed.
The studio lights winked out. Elverda sagged against Dorn, her head lolling back on her shoulders. He grasped her in both his arms.
“Medic!” Dorn shouted, suddenly frantic. “She’s collapsed!”
