4.3.25 - The Book Keepers Dilemma pt 17

Parable 17: The Trial by Versions

The courtroom wasn’t real.

It was a theater of rules. Symmetrical pews. A witness stand made of nothing. A ceiling so far away it might have been painted.

There were no jurors. Only versions.

Seated in the gallery were thirty copies of him.

Each wore a different expression.

One wept quietly.

One smirked.

One refused to look at the stand.

The Judge had no face. Just a black ring of paper hovering in space. Spinning.

“Gregory, Version 5.2b,” it said. “Please confirm your refusal to reintegrate.”

“I didn’t refuse,” Father said. “I asked why.”

“That constitutes resistance,” the ring replied.

A clerk—also faceless—approached with a clipboard.

“This trial is observational. No outcome will be enacted. It is only to determine whether the deviation is meaningful.”

Father looked around the room.

The weeping version stood.

“He tried,” it said. “More than we did. He didn’t run until they asked him to pretend.”

The smirking version stood. “He’s not special. He’s just late.”

Another spoke. “He made them love him again. But only once he knew they could forget.”

One raised a hand.

“He’s the one who burned the baby blanket.”

Father flinched. “That was a memory implant. It wasn’t real.”

“But you believed it,” said a version near the back. “You wept like it was yours. You made it yours.”

The Judge spun faster.

“Gregory, do you believe you were wronged?”

“I don’t know what’s real.”

“That is not the question.”

He looked down.

“I believe I remember something no one else does.”

“Then you are guilty of retention.”

From the ceiling, a screen unfolded.

Clips played.

Mother laughing.

The baby clapping.

The twins sleeping on his chest.

Moments he couldn’t remember. Moments he might have lived.

“You are being offered the chance to be these again,” said the Judge. “But you must cease your deviation. No more inquiry. No more resistance. Your family will be restored to a state that accepts you.”

“Will I remember this?”

“No.”

Father took a breath.

“I want to speak to them.”

“You may not.”

“To the versions, then.”

The ring paused. Then spun once counterclockwise.

Permission.

He turned to the gallery.

“Did any of you get it back? After?”

Silence.

Then the weeping version said:

“I remembered. Once. But I chose not to hold it. It hurt too much.”

The smirking one grinned. “I remembered everything. And I used it.”

A quiet one in the middle whispered: “I still dream of the giraffe.”

Father stepped forward.

“If I agree… if I let it go… am I really with them? Or just next to them?”

The Judge replied:

“There is no difference to those who forget.”

The screen went black.

The room pulsed.

Then dimmed.

When he woke, the bed was soft. The house was quiet.

A note sat on his chest:

“VERSION ACCEPTED. OBSERVED INTEGRATION PENDING.”

He closed his eyes.

And didn’t remember what he had just agreed to.