Statistics (short story)

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"Is it moral to have the punishment precede the crime?"

"An hour ago, I would have dismissed that as idle speculation," said Andrew ruefully. "But not now."

"It wasn't merely academic, even before I created the time machine," insisted Terrence, lightly juggling his black box. "For years, we've conscripted high-risk individuals when they become statistically dangerous. Most crime is committed by eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds with certain physical and intellectual characteristics, so we lock them in the army until they outgrow their rebelliousness."

"The military isn't punishment."

"For some, perhaps - certainly not you, Major. It doesn't matter. What does matter is the principle - that force can be used to prevent a crime before it happens."

"Maybe for very broad generalities," Andrew conceded, adjusting his uniform. "But never for specifics."

"But that was pragmatism, not principle. We couldn't distinguish between the future criminals and the perpetually innocent. This man looks suspicious, but is in fact honorable; this man looks honest, but is in fact murderous. There was an unacceptable degree of error."

"I know where this is going, and I don't like it."

"Look, Andrew, consider this. If a citizen buys a gun, do we arrest him as a murderer?"

"No, of course not."

"But if he kills someone with that gun, then do we arrest him?"

"One would hope so."

"But you don't always wait until he kills. For example, it's a crime for an ex-convict to own a gun. Why?"

"I know where this is going," muttered Andrew, staring at the black box.

"As always, my friend," smiled Terrence. "We don't let criminals have guns because, statistically, they're untrustworthy. Any random citizen might be more murderous than any random convict, but on the whole, we find more criminal activity in - surprise! - those who have already engaged in criminal activity. So we penalize these people based on what they could do, not on what they have done."

"No, we are penalizing them based on what they did. They were convicted of breaking the law, and this is part of their punishment."

"Not really, Andrew. Quite clearly, according to the law, their punishment ends the day they finish their sentence. These regulations are simply a defensive measure to combat a statistically undeniable danger. The rules vary from place to place; they are merely an arbitrary technique to prevent harm."

"There is a certain logic to it."

"A certain logic? Consider carefully what that means! Innocent individuals are being punished on account of their probability to harm, not their actions. We are condemning one man for the sins of another. And this is the rule, not the exception. What of laws that arbitrarily forbid an activity - driving, drinking, voting, whatever - before a certain age? What of laws that are based on race - illegal immigration sweeps that target certain ethnicities, for instance? What of laws that are based on gender - for example, keeping males away from certain areas at certain times of the night?"

"This proves nothing."

"This proves everything! This demonstrates that we already call it moral to punish someone for something that they will never do. How could it be immoral, then, to punish someone for something they will do?"

"But they haven't done it yet!"

"Haven't you been listening, Andrew? We punish people on the basis of statistics, not action - on predictions, not reality. And do you know why?"

"Fine, I'll ask. Why?"

"Because statistics are anonymous, but victims have faces. That's why. My father was a policeman all his life, and he said the hardest thing he ever heard was when the victim's relatives asked, 'Why did you let this happen?'. They didn't understand what they were asking for. It's one matter to punish someone after they commit the crime, but an entirely different one to prevent it."

"You can't prevent all crime, even with statistics."

"Ah, but that's the point. You can't simply lock a statistical danger in jail. Every member of society is statistically dangerous from some perspective. Even you, Andrew; despite your upstanding public record, your military training makes you a prime candidate for violence."

"Yes."

"We know enough to make some very broad generalizations, and some of these are marginally useful, like in the laws we discussed. But most are too blunt to be effective."

"Back to the box."

"Yes, the box." Terrence held up the small black box, a palm-sized time machine. It was a perfect cube, with a cold, metallic shell. "With this, we no longer need worry about being unfairly blunt. We can even discard, finally, those discriminatory laws that punish probability."

"I still don't like it."

"Get over it, Andrew; I don't care how uncomfortable it makes you feel. I only care about justice. Justice is not served by punishing broad swaths of the population - it is served by protecting the innocent from the guilty."

"But they're not guilty yet!"

"Are you even paying attention? I am talking about precise, direct executions. I am not talking about exploiting timetravel for my own sake. I am talking about helping the human race! I am talking about rewriting history, for the better!"

"It's not right!"

"You have yet to demonstrate that," said Terrence coolly.

"Besides," said Andrew weakly, "it shouldn't even be possible to change time."

"I know the theories. I used to believe them, too. If you stop Lincoln's assassination, then it won't be recorded in the history books...and then you won't know you should stop the assassination...and then you won't try to stop it...and then Lincoln will be assassinated....and then the circle starts again. Paradoxes and such. It all makes perfect sense logically."

"How convenient for you."

"No, it was quite inconvenient. I don't often have my logical abstracts blow up in my face. You see, after a little experimentation, I discovered that you really could change time."

"You haven't actually...?"

"No, I haven't executed anyone yet. But I have made changes. And the strange thing is, I remember the 'old' way. It's as if the world changes, but I don't. I can't understand why, but it works."

"What are you planning to do?"

"I've thought about that for a long time. A very long time. Ever since I started experimenting with timetravel, I had just one goal."

"And that was?"

"To help humanity. To purify it. To rid it of the pain and suffering and evil. Yes, I know, it's an impossible task. But we all try to do our part."

"Yes, we do," said Andrew slowly.

"This is my plan," said Terrence. "I'm going to go back a few centuries and eliminate a few of the most destructive individuals. Then I'll return to the present - the new present - and see how history has realigned. Undoubtedly some new evil will have sprung up to take the former's place, so I'll go back and squelch it, too. I imagine the process will never end, and, unfortunately, I can't delegate - it seems that only the person using the timetravel device remembers the 'old' time. It will be a lonely crusade, especially since I'm not sure if I'll even have the same friends."

The inventor paused for a moment to consider this.

"Andrew, you told me your parents came to this country to flee massacres in your homeland, right?"

"Yes."

"For the sake of our friendship, Andrew, I'll try to stop that - but it will mean that your parents won't emigrate here, and I'll probably never meet you," he said, moving to embrace him. "Still, I think it's right to sacrifice a friend to save a million people. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Please don't ask me that," said Andrew, shrinking back.

"I'm sorry, Andrew, I really am. I will miss you terribly. You have been a great friend to me this past year, and I will always remember you, regardless of what happens."

"Are you absolutely determined to do this?"

"Absolutely? Don't you see these provisions? I leave in a few minutes! I just wanted you, my best friend, to see me off, so I could say goodbye one last time."

"Are you absolutely determined to do this?" asked Andrew again, more quietly.

"Well, yes," said Terrence, momentarily taken aback.

"Absolutely determined," repeated Andrew softly. "A curse upon your logic, but you're right. You're right! I've tried to talk you out of it, but you're right. I'm so very sorry, but you're right."

Two shots. Terrence and his black box dematerialized.

"You're right," said Andrew sadly, putting away his gun with one hand and pulling out his own black box with the other. "You were a good friend. Your intentions were noble. But it would not have lasted."

Andrew set his device to take him forward a century, back to a present that would be unfamiliar to him - a present free from the ravages the corrupted Terrence triggered during his timetravels. Once home he would destroy the device and find a job doing whatever the 'new' present required. A job so he could forget, in a time that would ease his uneasy conscience. Not that anyone would ever know what happened - who cares if an eccentric inventor disappears? Common enough.

Just another innocent statistic.

 

Very nice! I really enjoyed that. (Sorry about the absence of constructive critism)

 

Makes you think, if one remembers it then does not such world still exist?
What we take to be time travel, is it really?