Hominids

But Ponter’s world was begi

“Because of the alibi archives,” said Ponter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“The what?” said Mary.

Ponter, still seated next to her on the couch in Reuben’s office, held up his left arm and rotated it so that the inside of his wrist faced toward her. The strange digits on the Companion winked at Mary. “The alibi archives,” he said again. “Hak constantly transmits information about my location, as well as three-dimensional images of exactly what I am doing. Of course, it has been out of touch with its receiver since I came here.”

This time Mary didn’t suppress the shudder. “You mean you live in a totalitarian society? You’re constantly under surveillance?”

“Surveillance?” said Ponter, his eyebrow climbing over his browridge. “No, no, no. No one is monitoring the transmitted data.”

Mary frowned, confused. “Then what’s done with it?”

“It is recorded in my alibi archive.”

“And what, exactly, is that?”

“A computerized memory archive; a block of material onto whose crystalline lattices we imprint unalterable recordings.”

“But if no one is monitoring it, what’s it for?”

“Am I misusing your word ‘alibi’?” said Hak, in the female voice it used when talking on its own behalf. “I understood an alibi to be proof that one was somewhere else when an act was committed.”

“Um, yes,” said Mary. “That’s an alibi.”

“Well, then,” continued Hak. “Ponter’s archive provides him with an irrefutable alibi for any crime he might be accused of.”

Mary felt her stomach flutter. “My God—Ponter, is the onus on you to prove your i

Ponter blinked, and Hak translated his words with the male voice. “Who else should it be on?”

“I mean, here, on this Earth, a person is i

“And I take it that you have nothing comparable to our alibi archives?” asked Ponter.

“That’s right. Oh, there are security cameras in some places. But they’re not everywhere, and almost no one has them in their homes.”

“Then how do you ascertain someone’s guilt? If there is no record of what actually happened, how can you be sure you are going to deal with the appropriate person?”

“That’s what I meant about unsolved crimes,” said Mary. “If we’re not sure—and often we have no idea at all—then the person gets away with the crime.”

“That hardly seems a better system,” said Ponter slowly.

“But our privacy is protected. No one is constantly looking over our shoulders.”

“Nor is anyone in my world—at least, not unless one is a … I do not know the word. Somebody who shows all for others to watch.”

“An exhibitionist?” said Mary, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes. Their contribution is to allow others to monitor the transmissions from their Companions. They have enhanced implants that sense at a higher resolution and to a greater distance, and they go to various interesting places so that other people can watch what is happening there.”

“But surely, in theory, someone could compromise the security of anyone’s transmissions, not just those of an exhibitionist.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?” asked Ponter.

“Well—um, I don’t know. Because they can?”

“I can drink urine,” said Ponter, “but never have I felt the urge to do so.”

“We have people here who consider it a challenge to compromise security measures—especially those involving computers.”

“That hardly seems a contribution to society.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mary. “But, look, what if the person who is accused doesn’t want to unlock his—what did you call it? His alibi archive?”

“Why would he not?”

“Well, I don’t know. Just on general principle?”

Ponter looked perplexed.

“Or,” said Mary, “because what they were actually doing at the time of the crime was embarrassing?” Bleep. “Embarrassing. You know, something you are ashamed”—bleep–“of.”

“Perhaps an example would help me get your meaning,” said Ponter.

Mary pursed her lips, thinking. “Well, um, okay, say I was—say I was, you know, having, um, sex with someone else’s mate; the fact that I was doing that might be my alibi, but I wouldn’t want people to know it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because we believe adultery”—bleep–“is wrong.”

“Wrong?” said Ponter, Hak having apparently guessed the meaning of the untranslated word. “How can it be, unless a claim of false paternity results? Who is hurt by it?”

“Well, um, I don’t know; I mean, we, ah, we consider adultery a sin.” Bleep.

Mary had expected that bleep, at least. If you had no religion, no list of things that didn’t actually hurt somebody else but were still proscribed behaviors—recreational drug use, masturbation, adultery, watching porno videos—then you might indeed not be so fanatic about privacy. People insisted on it at least in part because there were things they did that they’d be mortified to have others know about. But in a permissive society, an open society, a society where the only crimes are crimes that have specific victims, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a big deal. And, of course, Ponter had shown no nudity taboo—a religious idea, again—and no desire for seclusion while using the bathroom.

Mary shook her head. All the times she’d been embarrassed and ashamed in her life, all the times she was glad no one could see what she was doing: were they uncomfortable simply because of church-imposed edicts? The shame she felt over leaving Colm; the shame that prevented her from getting a divorce; the shame she felt over dealing with her own drives now that she had no man in her life; the shame she felt because of sin … Ponter had none of that, it seemed; as long as he was hurting no one else, he never felt uncomfortable over acts that gave him pleasure.

“I suppose your system might work,” said Mary dubiously.

“It does,” replied Ponter. “And recall that for serious crimes—those involving assaults on another person—there are usually at least two alibi archives available: that of the victim, and that of the perpetrator. The victim usually introduces his or her own archive of the event as evidence, and most of the time it clearly shows the perpetrator.”

Mary was simultaneously fascinated and repelled. Still …

That night at York …

If images had been recorded, could she have brought herself to show them to anyone?

Yes, she said to herself firmly. Yes. She had done nothing wrong, nothing to be ashamed of. She was the i

But—but even if there were a recording of what she’d seen, could it have been used to catch the monster? He’d been wearing a balaclava; she’d never seen his face—although a thousand different versions of it had haunted her dreams since. Whom would she have accused? Whose alibi archive would the courts have ordered unlocked? Mary had no idea where to begin, no idea whom to suspect.

She felt her stomach flutter. Maybe that was the real problem—the predicament that Ponter’s people had avoided: having too many possible suspects, too much crowding, too much anonymity, too many vicious, aggressive … men, she thought. Men. Every academic of her generation had been sensitized to the issue of gender-neutral language. But violent crimes were indeed overwhelmingly caused by males.