A Stone Cut Without Hands

To understand this story, you should read the

Prologue

(click).

*

A Young Virgin to Lie in Thy Bosom

Chapter 1

The Swarm

The swarm was a semi-independent entity. It was composed of about a 100 million autonomous segments that were each in turn formatted with 23 out of 46 possible processors. Each segment was formed completely developed with an inherited memory of everything that had ever happened to the swarm and its carrier. The process of commencing life as a mature segment with all of the experience of a million lifetimes was so alien that it was nearly impossible for the human mind to envision. The exchange of information between the segments created a network sufficiently complex to produce an awareness of itself. In other words, the Swarm was sentient.

Even though the swarm as a whole was sentient, the awareness of its existence was somehow shared in such a way that each segment was also aware of itself. Each individual segment was not just aware of itself as a separate being, but simultaneously aware of itself as a part of the whole.

It was believed, by the Swarm itself, that the information processing capacity of its segments was the cause of its sentience. Each segment acted as a single part of a nearly infinite array of parallel processors. This had the effect of giving the Swarm as a whole, a nearly infinite capacity to think and reason.

So, while the intellectual capacity of the individual parts was on the level of a handy-capped moron, the intelligence of the swarm as a whole was awesome. In human terms, the Swarm would be called an "Idiot Savant" because it remembered everything but had no common sense.

The inherited memory gave the Swarm a sense of being immortal. As a result, none of its segments thought of the end of their existence as death.

---------------------------------------------------

George Marshal frowned at the the Bailiff's litany. After hearing it over and over, it had become as monotonous to him as it was to the Court. The ritual was supposed to inspire respect, but the system was so corrupt that no one involved had any left. Even honest attorneys would grudgingly admit that the system was abused or manipulated as often as not.

"

HEAR YE, HEAR YE, THE JUSTICE COURT IN AND FOR THE COUNTY OF LINCOLN, THIS 25 DAY OF NOVEMBER 2006, IS NOW IN SESSION, THE HONORABLE JUDGE ADAMS PRESIDING. ALL ARISE."

The Bailiff wasn't half way through when old man in robes entered. He jumped up steps and was seated behind the bench before the order to rise. Grudgingly, George had started to "rise", thinking that for an old man, the Judge was pretty spry. It had to be an indication of an easy life.

Like George, everyone else only managed to get halfway up before the Judge growled, "Okay, I know no one wants to be here, not even me. I'm just as anxious to get home for Thanksgiving as anyone, so let's get this show on the road. Arraignments first, so the deputies can get the inmates back and head home. Clerk, where's the docket?" The courtroom's occupants immediately settled back into their seats.

The hick town municipal Court was unusual. The contrast between Judge Adam's jurisdiction and a normal courtroom was as great as that between the rancher's homemade bib coveralls across the aisle and the attorney's tailored suit in the front row. As informal as it was, George was amazed at how little difference there was in the results of the Court's procedures on the people.

A woman on the sunny side of 40 handed the Judge the docket from her cubicle-without-walls. Then, seconds later, she held out another explaining that there was a last minute addition because someone at the jail thought a prisoner ought to be released for Thanksgiving.

With a smirk on his face, the Judge was reviewing the list as a door in the opposite side of the Courtroom opened. Everyone except the Judge turned to watch a string of men in orange shuffle in using the 6-inch steps that were all their hobbles would allow. George was surprised that the prisoners were chained together.

They don't look like murderers. The police must be in a hurry because of the holiday

, he thought.

Bringing up the end, a woman shuffled in the same small steps. Almost as if they were being put on display, the men were directed to a row of seats placed at right angles to the room. The impression of being on display was increased as they sat down by the way their restraints forced them into an awkward posture. While they were fidgeting, clearly embarrassed by the chains, the woman was mostly hidden behind them.

At the woman's appearance, George sat up and paid attention. Belatedly, the bailiff's droning penetrated his awareness. "November 25, 2006," he mused, "my birthday". Maybe it would be a lucky birthday.

Focusing his attention on the potential present, he noted that she was more girl than woman. The orange jumpsuit did nothing for her appearance. Hanging on her 5'4" frame, it was baggy enough so that her long stringy brown hair was the primary evidence of her gender.

He'd never seen any of the prisoners appearing in court with makeup and assumed that they didn't allow any. The lack of makeup and the stress of jail gave her face a grayish pallor. Overall, her expressionless face and body language inspired a sense of despair much deeper than the others.

She hadn't raised her head since coming through the door, so George couldn't guess her age. Even if he'd been able see her face, he knew that the effect of jail and court on most perps added 10 years to their apparent age. Still the slim figure disguised by the jumpsuit argued for a girl. From somewhere deep inside came the feeling his search was over.

As if on cue, she looked up when her name was called. "Courtney Dobson?"

Standing up, she looked timidly towards the Judge. Her attitude was certainly consistent with what he needed. In fact, George felt an intangible attraction, as if she was calling out for help. She matched the mental image he'd formed of Abishag perfectly. For a brief instant, the hunger he started with 3 months ago for a young innocent girl assailed his mind.

With an intensity he'd seldom achieved, George clamped down on his emotions. As reason reasserted control, Courtney reappeared as a frightened teenager. He just hoped she hadn't committed a major crime? Hastily, he opened a file folder and grabbed a pen.

"Do you understand that you've been charged with some very serious crimes and that if you're convicted, you would be sentenced to a substantial time in jail?" the Judge asked, before looking up.

With a look of panic on her face, she nodded.

Turning to the prosecuting attorney, the Judge asked, "What is going on with this case? There isn't a request to set bail, she doesn't have an attorney of record, please tell me why she's here and why the normal procedures haven't been followed." "I don't have any idea your honor. She isn't listed on my copy of the docket, so she shouldn't be here. I don't even have her file. The County Attorney is handling this case himself and, unfortunately, he left town for the holiday. I did overhear a conversation about her refusing to say even a single word since she was taken into custody, but that is all I know."

Turning back to the girl, the Judge asked, "Do you understand that you have the right to an attorney, and that even if you can't afford one, I will appoint one to defend you?"

Opening her mouth, she looked as if she was being tortured.

Come on, you can do it,

George urged, sotto voce. As if in response to his urging, she wheezed "I don't have any money. My mother said she isn't responsible for me any more because now I'm eighteen. She told me not to even try to come back home." Her voice was weak as if it hurt to push air through her voice box. She was barely audible, even in the hush of the Court.

George noted that there wasn't anyone else in the Courtroom that had even a passing interest. That had to mean that, if she had family or friends, they didn't care enough to offer even the barest emotional support.

She was 18. Wow! She was barely 18! And there was probably no family to deal with! Wow! Wow! Wow! Now, if only she hadn't done something really bad

. The Judge had said "a serious felony, but George knew from experience that that could be something as innocuous as giving the wrong person

the finger

."

Judge Adams ruled, "Okay, so there isn't any reason to set bail. I'll send the public defender to meet with you after the holidays. If someone does come forward who can post bail, you can have them request it exparte." His demeanor had softened dramatically after her statement. The Judge had a grin similar to Mona Lisa's that appeared when he felt he had achieved justice in spite of the attorneys and the law. A smirk that George liked, and the he was wearing it now.

George had watched this Judge for nearly 3 months and was well aware of his antipathy towards "The System". Just like CPS, it consistently tried to pound square pegs into round holes. The idea was to frighten the perps into a plea bargain. Trials were expensive and time consuming, so if they could scare the defendants with a long list of charges, even those who were innocent would often accept a "Plea in Abeyance" to the avoid the chance of years in prison.

Then, once the perp was on probation, they'd watch for the smallest infraction so they could nail him without a trial. The rumor that the police were frustrated by not being able to keep criminals off the streets was mostly propaganda. The number of good people George had seen turned into bitter enemies of society and bent on revenge far exceeded the number of evil villains.

Judge Adams hated it when young people with no family support were dropped into the grist mill of the legal system and did everything he could to make the prosecutor's job as hard as possible. In general, unless the prosecuting attorney had an ax to grind, he would bend over backwards to give the so-called "disadvantaged" a break. More often than not, this had the effect of letting the real troublemakers off with a slap on the wrist.

George closed the folder in disgust as the court moved on. They hadn't even read the charges. He wondered if she'd be back before visiting hours were over and whether they allowed visiting on Thanksgiving.

This was definitely the best chance he'd had since he'd dreamed up this scheme three months ago. So, it was time to get to busy. His first step would be to see if he could get access to the case file. Outside the courtroom, he turned toward the clerk's office. Lincoln County was small and the clerk's office didn't even have a counter, let alone the security windows found in most Courthouses.

The nameplate on the only occupied desk said

Mabble Housen

. "That's a funny way to spell it," George thought. "Happy Thanksgiving Mabble." Mabble looked up with a wary glance. She'd been around long enough to have heard almost every scam in the book and as often as not, undue familiarity was a preliminary to a request that was at best unethical if not illegal. "It is pronounced Mabel, isn't it?" George answered to her challenge.

"Yes, my mother insisted on naming me after my grandmother, but my dad worked for the Telephone Company. To avoid the possibility of the name being confused with Ma Bell, they finally agreed to change the spelling." He noted his question had penetrated her distrust.

"I can certainly understand that," George smiled. "I've had a few run-ins with AT&T myself. In fact, my favorite long distance carrier is NO BELL.com," he added with an even bigger grin.

Hoping he'd breached her aura, he asked, "I need information about a case." Holding out a slip with the case #, he asked, "Could you please tell me what is available in the public record and if you need a written request."

Using his coercive arrogance, George carefully crafted his inquiry to dampen her suspicions. He knew that if the suspicions of a bureaucrat were raised and then she was convinced to act like a public servant, she'd give more than she would give voluntarily. His question was structured to force her to decide what was publicly available. His wording informed her that he knew she couldn't deny him anything in the public record and that he would cause her grief if she withheld anything he had a right to.

Just to be certain she would behave the way he intended, George waved his left arm in front of her in a flourish that added emphasis to his request and smiled as her eyes were drawn to the missing hand.

Knowing that the anxious half of her attention was distracted, he used an accusation to deceive. "I think this girl is being grossly mistreated." Picking up her nameplate in a way that emphasized his deformed thumb, he smiled even wider. "I hope you can help me without a hassle."

Without understanding how she'd been manipulated, Mabble realized her own reputation and performance had been placed on the scales of justice. After turning off her scam radar, she entered the case # into the computer. Even though she didn't understand how, she felt subconsciously threatened. Instinct told her not to create evidence that could be challenged. Instead of printing it, she turned the monitor so that George could take what he wanted. "Is this the one? Courtney Dobson?"

George scanned the monitor quickly before answering.

Courtney Dobson

Booking date 11/20/2006

Birth date 11/20/1988

Charges Breaking and entering

Possession of a controlled substance Vandalism, Felony theft

Prosecuting Attorney for the County; Michael Edmonds

"Yeah, that's her." After he'd memorized everything available on the monitor, he asked, "Do you know anything about her?" His question convinced Mabble he really was looking for a way to help.

"Are you related?" she asked.

"No, Just a friend", he continued, stretching the truth without really breaking it. Silently he added, "I am probably her best friend, even if she doesn't know it."

He didn't match the profile of a con artist Mabble decided. "Well, I guess I can tell you what was in the newspaper. Apparently, a gang of kids broke into one of the expensive cabins by the reservoir to have a party. They trashed the place, smashing everything breakable, spraying graffiti on the walls, stealing anything that could be carried and leaving Courtney behind, stoned and naked. She was in the hospital until yesterday and for a while they were afraid she had OD'd. The police wanted the names of the gang and when she wouldn't or couldn't tell them, they decided to drop the whole thing on her."

"Can you tell me when it was published." Her description didn't sound like a newspaper report. They usually didn't describe actions of the police and courts in criticizing tones. "This morning, I think," Mabble answered.

"You didn't happen to bring the paper to work, did you?"

Alarmed, Mabble babbled, "Maybe, I don't remember." This man was dangerous. He didn't let anything slip. She hoped she hadn't added anything that would come back to bite her. Hoping he'd be less likely to cause trouble, she did what she could to help him."

George noted that he'd caught her, but didn't have time to follow it up. The voice in his head was screaming that this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. "Is the police report available? Is it in the case file?"

"Yes", Mabble answered, "but the file is in the Courtroom." Not wanting to be caught again, she passed the buck. "Besides, It would be better if you got a copy from the sheriff's office. They're required to give you one on request." He recognized both her attempt to divert his attention and the change from worried bureaucrat to concerned grandmother with a well-concealed smirk.

"If you're going out to visit her, the sheriff's office is in the same building. By the time you get the report, she should be back so you could see her. Would you like me to call the jail for you and set up a visit?"

"That would be very helpful", George beamed, letting her off the hook. On impulse and without the any idea where it came from, he added, "Do you think it would be possible for me to donate pumpkin pies so the inmates could have a taste of the holiday? I wouldn't have the vaguest idea about how to arrange it, but after seeing them in Court, I suspect that even the smallest courtesy might be a good influence on them. They don't seem to be very thankful right now."

That was all Mabble needed. She was now convinced that George was a good guy. Believing he wouldn't bite the hand feeding him, she needed to make him grateful. "You bet," she said, then noting a cell phone on his belt, she added, "Give me your cell number and I'll get some details." She was almost at the point where, if she were offered proof he was a bad guy, she'd refuse to believe it.

Minutes later, as he was leaving, George gloated. "Was it really arrogance if you were better than people thought you were pretending to be? Not only was he going to get the girl, he could end up being a hero, and a Good Samaritan, all at once. And she was only 5 days past legal."

On the way to his pickup, George paused to watch as the prisoners were led out of a side door to the prisoner transport van. When a deputy came his way, George had to ask, "What's with the hobbles and chains?"

The deputy laughed. "That's just Judge Adams trying scare the kids straight. They got caught pulling a prank at the rodeo grounds last Friday, and he wants to show them the difference between what happens to juveniles and how they'll be treated now that they're eighteen."

"Will it work?" George asked with a smile.

Laughing again, the Deputy answered, "For most of them. The Judge goes to a lot of work to find a new way to impress each year's crop of graduates. The hard core delinquents are another story."

With a wave at the deputy, George followed the prisoner transport to the jail. It was only a few minutes drive, so George was surprised when, as he opened the door, he was accosted by a heavy set woman that gave the slang term "broad" new meaning. He knew thinking about one of the cogs in the bureaucracy that way was dangerous, but the major, 240-pound, 6-foot tall obstruction appearing unexpectedly in his path, temporarily circumvented his social inhibitions. Besides she was really "broad".

"George Marshal?" she demanded, in the tone of voice used by drill sergeants. At his nod, she held out the police report. "Mabble asked me to get you a copy." The Broad couldn't figure out why "Bloodhound Mabble" would do favors for some menial, but brown nosing often moved people to act in uncharacteristic ways. She certainly knew she had her own buttons and that he'd pushed more than one of them. Then, as if he were Santa Claus asking a 12-year-old what she wanted for Christmas, she begged, "Are you really going to supply pies to the jail for Thanksgiving?"

George smiled. He had no idea where the idea had come from, but he was sure the pies would be the least expensive payment-for-service he'd ever received from Lincoln County. He decided to see if he could milk more from his investment. "I was sitting in Court during the arraignments, and I couldn't help thinking about how little the prisoners had to be thankful for. How many pies could be put to good use?"

"A dozen would do, if you can swing it. You've no idea how thankful we are for this sort of thing. The prevailing attitude among elected officials is that, if you are in jail, you must be a criminal and if you are a criminal, you don't deserve anything to be thankful for. They've set things up so we can't buy something like this even when the suppliers are willing to provide it for less than regular meals. So, we're grateful when someone offers it as a gift which they can't turn away."