Icarus

by Christopher C. Smith

conclusion

The courtroom seethed with reporters. They murmured as the jury was seated. The court was called to order. A hush fell over the room. I sat just behind Dr. Roberts, alongside his wife and daughter, perched on the back of my chair so I could see the proceedings.

The trial had been under way for nearly two weeks now. The major point at issue was whether Dr. Roberts had killed me, and what his intent in doing so was. The prosecution had emphasized that downloading is not a simple transfer of software, as the term suggests. It involves the dissection and destruction of parts of the human brain in order to graft centers of memory and identity into the body of a genetically-engineered animal. They claimed that Dr. Roberts had caused the total brain death of Benjamin Johnson and then lobotomized my corpse, all to make a political point. That he was willfully indifferent to human life.

The defense insisted that I was not legally dead, and that in any case Dr. Roberts had no malice toward me and no intent to kill. Even I had to admit that, given the way the law was structured, the defense’s case sounded a little lame. Still, the Xenotrans lawyers had pulled out all the stops and made use of every legal precedent and loophole they could get their hands on. The pundits all agreed that the jury could go either way.

The judge, a robust, black-robed Asian man with silky white hair and a stony expression, called for the jury’s foreperson to check and verify the verdict forms. She did so, and the judge nodded.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “Please listen carefully to the verdicts as they are read by the clerk, as after the verdicts have been read you will be asked to verify that they are your verdicts. And I warn the audience that any disruption during the reading of these verdicts will result in expulsion from the courtroom. Dr. Roberts, please stand and face the jury.”

I studied Dr. Roberts’ posture as he stood. He stood up straight, head held high, hands comfortably clasped in front of him. He was the picture of confidence, except for the beads of sweat running down the back of his pale neck. Next to me his teenage daughter trembled. The air in the courtroom stifled, thick and hot with tension.

The court clerk gripped the top and bottom of the jury forms as though they were a scroll as he read them in a loud but shaky voice. “Superior Court of California, County of Sacramento. In the matter of People of the State of California versus Philip Roberts, case number BA124753. We, the jury, in the above-entitled action, find the Defendant, Philip Roberts, not guilty of the crime of murder in violation of penal code section 187(A) upon Benjamin Johnson, a human being, as charged in Count I of the information.”

Low murmurs erupted, and Dr. Roberts and his family breathed a visible sigh of relief. His daughter raised her hand to her mouth and pinched her lips together with her fingers as if to keep from shrieking her relief.

But I knew it wasn’t over. The murder charge had been the shakiest, since it required that the prosecution prove malice aforethought on Dr. Roberts’ part. Nobody really believed he had acted out of a depraved indifference to human life, even if many felt sure that any kind of meaningful human life I once had had been ended by his hand.

When the murmur quieted, the clerk continued. “Superior Court of California, County of Sacramento. In the matter of People of the State of California versus Philip Roberts, case number BA124753. We, the jury, in the above-entitled action, find the Defendant, Philip Roberts, guilty of the crime of involuntary manslaughter—”

The court erupted with noise. Dr. Roberts’ shoulders slumped, and his wife and daughter collapsed in sobs. I wanted to scream. I would have screamed — it’s the one emotional expression hawks are really good at — but it might have gotten me kicked out before I could say goodbye to my friend. And after all that he had given up for me, I felt I owed him that.

The judge was slamming his gavel on the podium, and the bailiffs were making examples of particularly disruptive audience members by hauling them out of court by the arms.

When the court had quieted, the clerk finished reading his legal mumbo-jumbo. “Given the circumstances of the case, the jury recommends the defendant be given the minimum sentence of two years,” he added in closing.

The jury went through the ritual of affirming that this was their verdict, and then were thanked and dismissed. Finally the judge said, “The defendant, having been convicted of manslaughter but not of murder, is remanded into custody of the county sheriff pending formal sentencing.” And with that, the court was adjourned.

Cameras flashed wildly as Dr. Roberts turned and embraced his family with tears streaming down his face. His wife and daughter clung to him and wept bitterly as he murmured tender apologies and goodbyes.

I reeled with the sudden realization that these women were about to be stripped of a husband and father, just as my father had left me. And Dr. Roberts was doing this for me. For Xenotrans, I knew, and for his belief in the right to choose. But also for me. He loved his family very dearly, but he had put his happiness with them at risk so that I could be free. So that I could be falsely, selfishly free. I felt miserable.

I hopped down onto the seat and pulled out my keypad. After a long moment, Dr. Roberts wiped away the tears and turned to me. “Ben,” he said with a sad smile. “I guess you’re Perdix, after all. My freedom for yours.”

I wished I could cry, but I don’t have tear glands. So I shook my head vigorously. “No, Dr. Roberts, you’re wrong,” I typed. “I’m the Phoenix, and you’re the fire god who destroyed me so I could be born again.”

His voice cracked a little as he replied. “I’m glad, Ben. I don’t regret it. But do me a favor and make sure it’s worth it. Really live.”

I flew to him then and perched on his belt with my wings wrapped around him in a big ... uh... bird hug. He laughed and put his hand on my back.

I hopped back to my seat and my keypad. “I will,” I promised.

I watched from a perch on my seat-back as the bailiffs led him away. Really live, he had said. That morning I would have taken that to mean that I should go on a vacation, see the world.

But I understood now why Dr. Roberts had arranged that meeting with my mother and sister in the mall this morning. Because he was about to be torn from his family’s arms, and it was tearing him up inside. Because he knew that when you walk away from your family, something dies inside of you. As my father is dead to me, I realized, I have been dead to my mother and sister these months since my download. Even the court had decreed me dead.

I trembled and gripped the back of the chair tightly with my talons. My breast shuddered and heaved with emotion.

And then I inhaled deeply and made a decision. If I hurried, I could catch my family at the train station. I took wing, let loose with a piercing call, and swooped out the courtroom door, ready to grovel for forgiveness and a second chance at a second chance.

To Challenge 443...