by Tom Shepherd
“Charlie, this is Noah. How do you read me? Where are you?”
“Loud and clear. Aboard the Wollongong, just docked at Bekka-Capella. I’m transmitting by datacom.”
“Sounds like Captain Jon’s Apexcom adapts pretty well to hand-held voice-only. Next time, try the portable unit when you’re away from the Carrier.”
“Yeah, but I’m hooked into the Wollongong power matrix. Can’t operate the datacom without becoming an energy vampire. When I’m in the field, I’ll have to get creative.”
“Don’t get caught stealing juice,” Noah said. “Subscribe to the local energy grid and send me the invoice.”
“F-7 doesn’t have a planetary grid. You want me to subscribe to power sources in all the provinces and major cities?”
“Just don’t get caught sucking power without a license.”
“Caught? Never.”
“Did you deliver the ship module Apexcom to the Legal Beagle?”
“Noah, the Carrier just touched down. The stevedores haven’t unloaded the cargo yet. Soon as it’s unpacked, I’ll have one of your guys deliver the tech to the Star Lawyers corvette.” He scratched his ear. “On another matter, I still don’t understand why you insisted on packing this big-assed freighter with Matthews weaponry for the Tradeshow.”
“All of which is obsolete. We dump the junk inventory at bargain basement rates and provide our agent with a cover story for showing up with the largest Cargo Carrier in service today.”
“Okay, now I get it. Make a little money while preserving the peace.”
“Now you’re thinking like a Matthews.”
“I’ll get the Apexcom to the Beagle today.”
“Good.” Noah paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “What do you have to report?”
“The Quirts stepped up their purchases. They beat our surrogates to several new weapons platforms on sealed bids. My sources say colonial Meks rigged the bidding to favor Quirt clients.”
Noah grunted. “That’s what I hear, too.”
“It’s a real problem, because this year there’s a particularly nasty chunk of hardware up for sale. Screen-buster, X-ray cannon. I don’t want Quirt neo-expansionists to get their blue hands on that kind of firepower.”
“Who’s selling?” Noah said.
“The Dengathi Stellar Lagoon,” Charlie told him. “I have no idea where the Frogs got that fucking weapon. Call me racist, but cold-blooded amphibians don’t have the brains to develop technology so far ahead of everybody else.”
“Maybe you’re wrong,” Noah said carefully.
“Let’s stay with the dumb frogs model for a moment. Here’s another possibility,” Charlie said. “The ancient races of the old Galactic Empire were supposed to have screen-buster technology. If the Dengathi unearthed a sealed vault packed with technology from those days, they could’ve reverse-engineered a mega-blaster based on phased X-rays. Granted, that takes some smarts, but not as much as inventing a whole new class of indefensible weaponry.”
“Reverse engineered?” Noah’s voice became darker, quieter. “Like Grandpa did with the original Jump Gates?”
“Exactly,” Charlie said.
Noah shook his head. “Dengathi aren’t exactly known for their archeological prowess, either.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a tomb. Maybe they found a derelict starship from the days of the old Empire.” Charlie whistled. “God knows what other weaponry or support modules they might’ve found. Good thing the Frogs are non-expansionist.”
“But not above selling armaments to the highest bidders,” Noah said.
“And that’s a good thing,” Charlie said. “Whether they invented a screen-buster or found it under the Christmas tree, M-double-I surrogates can buy the prototype and all design schematics.”
“That won’t be enough,” Noah said. “We need to hammer out an ironclad, non-competitive contract that guarantees the Frogs will not sell the same or similar items to anyone but us.”
“You want me to approach them openly, represent the Company?”
“I have another option in play. No offense, Charlie, but you don’t have the business acumen to bring off a deal this large. Luckily, I sent someone to F-7 who does.”
“You’re not talking J.B. are you? I mean, the kid is clever, but really—”
“No, no. I want to keep him out of the weapons trade. I love my eldest son, but J.B. thinks people are basically good-natured, and—given the right resources and love in their lives—all sentient beings will live together in peaceful harmony. Reads too much Thomas Merton.”
“Admirable philosophy,” Charlie said. “Totally nuts, but admirable.”
“Besides, he isn’t avaricious enough.”
“If not J.B., who?”
Noah smiled slightly. “Check the Wollongong’s passenger manifest.”
Charlie accessed ship records on the bridge command console. “I see what you mean. I’ll make contact.”
“Keep me posted.”
“Here’s a note from the front,” Charlie said. “From what I’ve observed, the kids are performing magnificently. You should be proud.”
“I’m gratified to hear that. I’ll tell their mother. Anything else?”
“One complaint, Brother. You could’ve told me your daughter is a Justicia Para Todos dispatcher.”
“You didn’t have the need to know.”
“Bull-puckey. How did it happen?”
“Runs in the Family.”
“Damnit, Noah, I can’t believe you turned sweet little Rosie into a serial killer.”
“Don’t you go all Thomas Merton on me, too. This is war. She’s a sniper behind enemy lines.”
“Do you actually believe what you’re saying?”
“Hell, yes. And for the record, I didn’t turn Rosalie into anything. When she was a child, my daughter asked questions about justice and lawlessness. We talked for years. I never—listen, Charles, damnit—I never advocated for the path she chose. And she doesn’t know about others who have gone that way in the past.”
“She doesn’t—you’re sure?”
“Totally.”
“J.B. and Tyler know about Rosalie?”
“She zapped a clump of pirates to save their lives. Afterward she told the boys everything. So did Julieta.”
“Does Bianca know?” Charlie asked.
Noah laughed. “Am I still alive?”
“Good point.”
“I’ve got to keep secrets to function in the commercial battlefield where M-double-I does business,” Noah said. “Nobody in the Family knows you and I have been in cahoots about the Tradeshow purchases for six years now. Well, my brother-in-law knows. I had to tell Xavier why Matthews-Solorio Enterprises was shoveling large sums of money to the treasuries of distant, obscure star nations. Nobody but the Senator knows that you and I are on speaking terms.”
“Your children think you hate me,” Charlie grumbled.
“Most days, I do, a little,” Noah said. “You abandoned the Family—for what? The life of a vagabond.”
“A life of adventure,” Charlie objected. “You have M-double-I, the kids, and Bianca. I have all the other women in the Universe and crooked governments to swindle. I love my life.”
“And now you’re facing criminal charges in a court of law. They could find you guilty, Charlie. Then what?”
“I have the finest representation in the Galaxy. With J.B., Rosalie, Suzie, and Parvati in my corner, I’ll beat the rap.”
“God, I hope so. Because your only alternative will be to pack your bags and disappear like a gypsy in the night. And the Meks will come after you, like the Bank of Rahjen collecting on a loan.”
“I’m touched you care so much about me, Brother.”
“Fuck, yes,” Noah said. “If they hang you, where do I get another spy with your connections? It would cost me a fortune.”
“On that warm, familial note, I’m signing off.”
“Don’t get convicted. Bianca would never forgive m
e.”
Charlie laughed and terminated the transmission.
Sixteen
Tyler shifted in his seat at the defense table. Spectators packed the gallery, mostly Quirt-Thymeans with a smattering of aliens dotting the crowd of blue faces. News media showed up in force, especially the Imperial Judicial Network, scheduled to broadcast the trial holographically to the ends of the Empire.
He didn’t like to appear in court without a clear trial strategy, but in a criminal proceeding the burden of proof fell on the prosecution, a point of law on which Terrans and Quirt-Thymeans agreed. Theoretically, all Tyler’s defense team had to do was destroy the prosecution’s case against Mr. Blue. Chip away at the testimony of government witnesses, present a credible slate of counter-testimonies, and he should go free.
But justice was radically democratic in the Quirt-Thymean Empire. The people who watched at home and at their workplaces would decide by secret ballot whether the defense accomplished its mission, not a judge or courtroom jury.
Prince Zenna-Zenn huddled between Tyler and Lovey Frost, with Sash at the far end of the table. Dressed in a pale tangerine kimono, Investigator Yumiko Matsuda, who doubled as Mr. Blue’s First Wife, sat at attention in the otherwise empty row behind the defense table. Before Tyler allowed her to board the shuttle to the trial site, he made sure the dangerous martial arts expert had left her katana aboard the Patrick Henry.
Blue wanted to plead guilty and end the proceedings, but Tyler threatened to have him muzzled if he proclaimed anything but innocence. Yumiko bent forward and volunteered to restrain her liege lord for his own good, whereupon Zenna accepted silence in lieu of public humiliation.
Tyler leaned across the table and said, “Counselor Frost, have you heard from Demarcus Platte, or my cousins?”
“Not the Inspector, but Dr. Solorio early this morning,” Lovey whispered. “She and Esteban planned to troll the Palace halls for exculpatory witnesses.”
“Why didn’t she check with me first?” Tyler hissed.
Lovey kept her voice low. “Because you’d order her to court as your Pharmaadoodil interpreter, and she wanted to follow a new lead.”
“What new lead?” Tyler said.
“Didn’t specify. Made a copy of Chief Jadan’s list.”
“I interviewed everybody on that list,” Sash added softly. “No-body knows no-thing,”
“Julieta doesn’t believe them,” Lovey said.
“Me, neither. Somebody’s covering for the government.” Tyler scratched his head. “What does Demarcus think?”
Lovey’s hands tossed a who knows gesture.
Tyler glanced at the prosecution table. Yerzail Kamariikaaa, Chief Prosecutor of the Imperial Court at Annistyn-Kloore, headed the team of government attorneys. Yerzail was richly attired in a dark green judicial robe with crisscross silver embroidery running down each sleeve.
Six others crowded the prosecution table, all wearing jade green mantles and emerald cloaks of assistant senior prosecutors. Research assistants in olive tunics overflowed the row behind the starting lineup. Symbolically, the prosecution dressed to draw Quirt-Thymean green blood and show no stain.
Tyler leaned forward to address his Quirt co-counsel. “Are we out of uniform, Sash?”
“No, Tyler Ivey. The defense may wear tasty civilian attire.”
“Tasteful.” Lovey rolled her eyes.
“Didn’t I say that?” Sash asked.
Two armed guards entered the courtroom and declared the judges were approaching. Tyler attempted to rise, but Mr. Blue caught his arm.
“We remain seated to show respect,” Zenna-Zenn said. “Like eating a good meal.”
“Again the food imagery,” Tyler said. “I don’t know why your people don’t weigh 300 kilos.”
“Rapid metabolism,” Sash said. “Now we must be still.”
Holo-cameras came to life as the Judge appeared at a side door to the right of the bench. Tyler was once again amazed at the common elements in this courtroom, a pattern which repeated itself across cultures separated by thousands of light years and millions of years in solitary evolution. Judge on a high seat, not unlike a king ruling from the throne, the most likely genesis of the courtroom layout. Except the Quirt-Thymean judge had a high-backed armchair from which to preside over typically long-winded arguments instead of a hard, metal throne.
Below this raised judgment seat, opposing parties huddled together to make their case for justice or mercy. They presented witnesses, whose credibility ruled the proceedings by swaying whomever was tasked with rendering a verdict—judge, arbitration panel, or audience as a whole.
When it came to major criminal proceedings, Quirt-Thymeans took democracy to a whole new level. Like most cultures, judges ruled on points of law. But there was no jury. The Imperial Judicial Network holographically broadcast the trial world-wide on the planet where the alleged offense took place.
Citizens signed up in advance to render judgement and pledged to follow the courtroom activities faithfully. Employers allowed their people judicial leave during the trial, and the courtroom judge broke the testimony and legal arguments into bite-sized chunks, which allowed everyone to break for the multiple meals of a typical QT day. The system worked best for citizens in Annistyn’s capital city, Chiminda-Garteeza.
Other worlds of the Quirt–Thyme Empire could opt to watch the trial live-streamed from Annistyn, or receive the proceedings by delayed holo-recording if the distance proved too great for live broadcast. Only residents of the world where the trial took place could vote on the verdict.
After both prosecution and defense presented their cases, the judge—always a male Quirt-Thymean—summarized his understanding of what had been proved or remained unproved. This was the most important moment in the trial, because judges often turned the tide of opinion from innocent to guilty, or vice versa, by a few simple observations about what he believed were now the established facts of the case.
Finally, the people who had registered as citizen-jury members cast their ballots. Since unanimity was impossible when millions of jurors were sitting in judgement, it only took a three-quarters majority to convict. The bar was high enough to factor out trivial respondents but low enough to be attainable.
Defendants were found guilty or not guilty in almost a perfect statistical bell curve. It worked so well that several non-Quirt worlds, including the Terran settlement on Riley’s World, adopted the video voter procedure.
Tyler preferred a jury trial over the voter-executioner system, as Demarcus called it, but he had to admit it was fair to both sides. Well, maybe it favored good performers, or awarded extra points to physical beauty as Quirts defined it, or harbored secret prejudices about off-worlder defense attorneys. It was the way things were done on Annistyn, and here the Star Lawyers must make their case for Mr. Blue’s innocence.
One more incentive. If more than three-quarters of the citizens found Sub-Prince Zenna-Zenn guilty, Tyler would join HRH on the execution block for defending a regicide. If he had stayed at the Orbital Hub, Tyler could have participated by holographic projection and avoided the death penalty should he lose the case. His arrest in the capital city negated that escape clause.
Judge Felizool-Kemongalu wore the dark blue robe with gold embroidery of an Imperial adjudicator, which complemented his purple-blue hair streaked with turquoise, typical of a Thymean. Sash had briefed the team that the Supreme Judicial Authority specifically chose a Thymean Senior Jurist to preside as a gesture of political neutrality. A descendent of the suppressed, non-Quirt colonists, Judge Felizool didn’t have a dog in this fight. He had no political ambitions and was near retirement age, and his Thymean family stood outside the Quirt-dominated royal bloodline, so any judgement he rendered could not be charged to the ambition of a sub-clan within the tribe of kings.
He called the court to order with a deep baritone voice that filled the sound system as if he didn’t need amplification. Tyler’s court-supplied earpiece rendered the sonoro
us Pharmaadoodil words into acceptable Terran Standard.
“What case comes before me this morning?” Felizool intoned the ritual opening of court.
A green Kolovite bailiff—an ectotherm, also a non-player in royal politics—strode forward to continue the liturgy of litigation. “Be it known: The Quirt-Thymean Empire charges His Royal Highness Tertiary Sub-Prince Zenna-Zenn Ringadool-Khelida-LeBokk, Junior, with the murder of our High King and Sovereign, His Imperial Highness, Emperor Bandu-Jeewan Ringadool-Khelida-LeBokk. Rajah of the LeBokk Dynasty, High Sovereign of Annistyn, Protector of the People, Ruler of the Quirt-Thymean Empire. Let all with knowledge of the events in question come forth and speak truthfully under penalty of law.”
“There is no oath administered,” Lovey whispered. “Everyone is considered sworn to tell nothing but the truth.”
Tyler listened intently to the Kolovite bailiff finish his summons to the court. Judge Felizool raised his hands and offered a prayer in a language that was not Pharmaadoodil; the crowded gallery responded with a yip-yip-yip sound. Tyler’s counterpart at the prosecution table stood and shuffled his data pads.
Mr. Blue’s trial had officially opened.
“Most Esteemed Judge Felizool-Kemongalu,” Chief Prosecutor Yerzail began, “all who gather this day know His Imperial Highness, Emperor Bandu-Jeewan, our beloved Blue King, was shockingly murdered—no, assassinated—by a member of a lower princely caste, Tertiary Sub-Prince Zenna-Zenn. After his foul deed, Prince Zenna-Zenn fled the palace. He fled the planet Annistyn. He fled beyond the vast expanse of Quirt-Thymean space without permission to leave the Empire.
“He offers no defense, other than a shallow claim of protecting the High Queen. When, in fact, he came to the palace that night to impose himself on his Third Wife, Queen Veraposta, contrary to her wishes. He barged into the royal bed chamber to slake his passions in flagrant disregard of the published schedule of coitus. Our martyred Most Gracious Sire, Emperor Bandu, was fulfilling his conjugal responsibilities when Zenna-Zenn cut him down.
“We will present testimony from unimpeachable eyewitnesses to establish the veracity of my summary of the crime. When this tribunal concludes, I have no doubt the good and just people of Annistyn-Kloore will vote for the memory of their slain Emperor, returning a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death.”
