Overruled

by Hank Davis

  And now for the Dark Side…

  Some of the classic writers of sf and fantasy have had a less than rosy view of lawyers and courtrooms. In the first of his celebrated Martian novels, A Princess of Mars, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ immortal John Carter describes the green, four-armed Martians’ society thus: “In one respect at least the Martians are a happy people; they have no lawyers.” In the previous line, Carter muses that “justice seldom misses fire, but seems rather to rule in inverse ratio to the ascendancy of law,” which reminds me of that quip that “Justice is what we want, but the law is what we get.”

  And there’s Robert E. Howard’s “Queen of the Black Coast,” in which Conan (a barbarian, you might have heard) witnesses a friend defending his lady friend from a government guard, and is hauled into court and ordered to bear witness against said friend. When the Cimmerian demurs, saying he does not wish to testify against a friend, the judge explains to him that the law outranks friendship and it is his duty to testify. At which point Conan narrates, “So, seeing they were all mad, I drew my sword and cleft the judge’s skull, then cut my way out of the court…” (I’m again indebted to Christopher Ruocchio, who identified the story’s title, which I had forgotten.)

  I don’t have a copy of S. Fowler Wright’s classic sf novel, The World Below, handy to provide an exact quote, but I remember being struck by the man of the present (that is, the 1930s) who has traveled millennia into the future amid beings very unlike humans, and explains to one of them that in his (our) time, the government gleefully churned out law after law, until there were too many of them for anyone to keep track of, and it was difficult to cross the street without breaking at least one of them.

  But enough of the gripings of classic writers, and time for your much lesser editor to do some of his own griping. At some point in these anthology intros, I inevitably bemoan the absence of stories I would have liked to include, but circumstances would not permit. I’ve already lamented the lack of a story by “Leonard Lockhard.” Another such regrettable absence is “The Witness” by one of my favorite writers, Eric Frank Russell. It would have been oddly up-to-date for a story from the early 1950s, bearing on the present controversy over illegal aliens, (or, as some would have it, “undocumented immigrants”), this time with a really alien alien, and I think it’s a terrific story, even if I suspect that the late Mr. Russell and I would be on opposite sides of the controversy. I’ve tried in the past to include other Russell gems, never with success so far.

  I wonder if I could subpoena one of Russell’s stories…?

  Excuse me, I think I need to visit the more benevolent sort of bar. See you in court!

  THE SKETCHER

  Tom Kidd

  The artist turns writer here with a rollicking story by Tom Kidd explicating his own terrific cover for this book.

  The hapless hero of the story might be thinking, frame artwork, not artists. This artist’s services were much in demand, particularly among the aliens, who considered taking a photograph to be heinous and illegal. So he strictly stuck to sketching to earn a living on their planet. Surely it was all a misunderstanding and he could prove his innocence. But it didn’t help that the aliens also regarded trial by jury as a ridiculous human custom, certainly nothing that they would bother with…

  •

  My greatest desire was to get the hell out of Dodge. In my case Dodge is a small town in Missouri named Knob Noster. This passion would ultimately lead me to be among the first of my kind to travel to the other side of the galaxy. Perhaps you imagine something rather fantastic, yet it happened in a rather mundane and unintended manner. But please, first of all, and more than anything, dispense with my given name, Laudent Fridolupe Granger, and call me Scribbler. I got that nickname because I like to draw; it’s meant to be derogatory—to demean my efforts to be an artist—but long ago I willfully made that name mine. It now defines me.

  At eighteen, I seemed destined for failure; I had no prospects, no future whatsoever. All I had was my art, and it was getting me nowhere. My dream was to go to some distant art college, and become an illustrator. The farther I traveled, the better—maybe even to other worlds. I wanted to escape to someplace the opposite of this one.

  And not come back.

  Youthful aspirations are like that. They cannot be denied. Their influence is all powerful, all consuming, an unstoppable passion. They make you desperate, drive you to do the silliest and most unlikely of things…

  “DRAW BLONKY,” the ad said, “AND WIN AN ART SCHOLARSHIP!” You saw the advertisements everywhere. All you had to do was make a copy of a goofy face in profile and send it off to the experts to judge your talent. When my older brother, Bill, found out I’d indeed done a drawing and sent it in, actually put it in an envelope and mailed it, he called me a fool. Then he came into my room to show everyone we knew how foolish I was.

  “Look at my little brother, Scribbler,” he said turning his ring-camera towards me—the feed going directly to his vlog—as I lay on my bed reading. “His head is filled with crazy fantasies about being an artist. He’s so desperate to do so, he answered that stupid ad and did a drawing of Blonky. Look,” said Bill who scanned the camera across my small library of books, “Oz books; children read those.”

  I didn’t bother to explain that the books were beautifully illustrated, and that’s what attracted me to them, but I’d certainly read them all. The idea of escaping to somewhere exotic appealed to me. And I’d watched the original Wizard of Oz movie a few times too. Perhaps he was right; maybe I should grow up.

  Even my parents worked in turns to expertly belittle me:

  “High school is behind you,” said Dad.

  “It’s time you start thinking about a real job,” added Mom.

  “The world no longer needs artists.”

  “Never really did.”

  “We won’t support you while you chase this illusion.”

  “Your brother has the right idea.”

  “His vlog makes real money.”

  “Bill pays us rent.”

  “Maybe it’s time you started doing that.”

  This went on for some time. My parent’s perceptions were intransigent, so it would be a waste of time to argue, if it were even allowed. How is it they were proud of my brother, whose vlog is dedicated to humiliating people? Doesn’t it matter how someone makes their money?

  A week later, a very long week later, a faux-gilded envelope arrived from the Super Art School (SAS). It announced that I was one of the finalists in its scholarship program and that an instructor would come to the house to give me further tests. I was excited until Bill, well-trained in the art of disparagement, informed me that the company told everyone they had “great talent” and gave out “scholarships” that were only partial, mere discounts, enticements to coax you to sign on for their expensive by-mail training. The art school refused to use the internet, they had to see the real art, to make sure it was done by hand. Bill went on to tell me it wouldn’t be an instructor who would come by but merely a salesman. That was my brother’s mission in life: dashing any small hope I had.

  The slick salesman, Jerry Sam, arrived on the appointed day. He gushed with praise for my art, but due to Bill’s disenchanting words, his compliments fell on deafened ears. Then Mr. Sam gave me his “Comprehensive Test.” He timed this with an old-fashioned stopwatch, something I recognized only from time-worn black & white movies. First, he set several objects on a table in front of me, removed them, and asked me to draw each one from memory. My favorite part of the test was when he told me to use my imagination to create a storyboarded sequence of first alien contact. When he looked at the art I’d done, he exclaimed, “Holy shit!” This didn’t seem like a professional reaction to me, nor did it come across as a good sign. Before I could work up the gumption to question this, he’d gathered up all the art I’d done, stuffed it into a portfolio, and said, “I need to take this back to the office.” Then he immediately left as if he had an unexpected and
pressing appointment. He never offered me a dubious scholarship, nor did he quote me a price for the SAS program. I didn’t know what to think.

  Things then happened fast. I received a notice from SAS that I’d been accepted for extensive instruction on a full art scholarship. They gave me a day to pack my bags, and to my family’s amazement, a Homer hovered outside our house, its massive, lighter-than-air, doughnut-shaped envelope covering the lawn and a portion of the street. It had been dispatched from MacDill Air Force Base to pick me up and fly me off for my training at Ellsworth Rocket Base in South Dakota. The I-Cixx Corporation, a military contractor, had underwritten my education. They needed people like me. The following week I was a bona fide space artist trainee, and I was about to board a spacecraft that would fly me off into the cosmos. My further art education would take place during my long trip across the galaxy. I would soon be free of Missouri misery. My head spun, my heart pounded with excitement while my stomach churned in anticipation of my future. None of my family members were there to see me off, not even via holo.

  No one.

  Some small part of me had hoped for a polite familial sendoff, a final group picture, a hug goodbye, an expression that they might miss me in some small manner. Of all people, Jerry Sam was there to say goodbye, and he bid me farewell with a face that seemed sorrowful. In retrospect, what I saw was some regret, some sense of complicity in deceiving me.

  Other conscripts would tell me that the I-Cixx Corporation’s search for artists had three requirements for their art contractors: excellent imaginative drawing skills, a desperation to get away, and a substantial amount of youthful gullibility. Check—check—check.

  If I’d had someone to write home to, someone who cared, I’d have told them about the intense whirlwind of activity that followed. Once in space, I was transferred to a space station–sized transport ship of alien design. I quickly realized I must be the only human aboard. Indeed, none of my I-Cixx instructors were human, nor was anyone I met. Each day a tornado of information about the universe spun about me. My young mind took it all in and adapted to my otherworldly surroundings. As I learned, we rocketed on beyond the reach of human civilization—and kept going. No one had told me I was taking the local into space with multiple stops that slowed our travel so much it took over a year for me to reach my destination. Then, after all that time, it came to me, the small print in my contract, the harsh reality of line #62. It stated I’d be “embedded” in this part of the universe: I had only a one-way ticket. Goodbye Earth.

  Forever.

  * * *

  Gone now is the starry-eyed kid thrilled to have the opportunity to experience the multifaceted wonders of what lay beyond our solar system. Fifteen years of traveling in space has taken away its sparkle. Mainly, I work with interpreters in our attempts to communicate with the various self-aware species, to understand their cultures, and establish better communication with them. If you were to ask me now, I’d say there are far too many sentient creatures around these days. Wait, that’s unfair of me. My thoughts smack of human bigotry, xenophobia. The world is an intricate mosaic of fascinating creatures we should all be honored to be a part of—“blah, blah, blah,” I said aloud to myself after having remembered the introduction of my work primer. My present, angry thoughts on alien life are more a reflection of my profound frustration with these knuckleheads.

  And one insufferable robot.

  In ancient times we humans felt all alone in the universe, and we went around forlornly seeking other peoples as highfalutin’ as we saw ourselves. Through organizations like SETI we scoured the skies for extraterrestrial intelligence to no avail. What was it my grandmother used to say? Be careful of what you wish for. Our wishes were answered a hundred thousandfold. It’s like a child eating so many of his favorite candy bars, his gluttony is transformed into a period of profound revulsion for them.

  In this part of the universe, it’s wall-to-wall alien civilizations. I know it’s something of a misnomer to call creatures in their own systems aliens, but they come in such mightily weird forms—distinctly alien shapes to my eyes—out here in the Cygnus arm of our galaxy. After all my time here I’ve only been able to categorize a small fraction of the varieties of perambulating, floating, swimming, digging, flying, sailing; then talking, singing, cogitating, philosophizing, hypothesizing—breathing and non-breathing folk in the universe. And they come in so many disgusting forms. Hold on, I take that back, no, not disgusting, heaven forbid, instead, beautiful varieties of life in wonderful and myriad forms. That’s another phrase that comes right from my training brochure. Isn’t that nice?

  One important thing the I-Cixx Corporation doesn’t tell its contractors is that interpreting work isn’t enough money to live on; you have to accept many side gigs, extra art assignments, the lesser endeavors to satisfy people’s curiosity about the universe, little things to pad out your income. More importantly, I’ve been saving up the money from those jobs, little bit by little bit, over all the years I’ve been here, for my ticket home. In a reverse of my prior need to escape, my overriding desire is now to go home; well, maybe not home, not back to Knob Noster, Missouri, but Earth. My feeling of goodbye and good riddance has faded with time.

  Full disclosure: I’m in a bad mood today, and I’ve been drinking a little. Strike that, a lot. Seriously, what would you do if you were facing your imminent execution? As is tradition, I was offered my last meal, and I chose potables—whiskey…and bourbon, and vodka, and the lovely green fairy, absinthe. As you can tell by my wavering words, they complied with my final wish. At an insane pace, I’ve been guzzling cheap liquor from tiny plastic decanters, now strewn about my cell, and it has fueled my need to draw into a state of furious cathartic expression, disgorging my bile into the pages of my sketchbook. Such is my pitiful and mighty power, the imagination to make fun of the people who frustrate me, who make my life miserable, and portray them as pitiful jesters dancing a humiliating jig that amuses the all-powerful god with His little pencil. I thank the Fates—the bouncing autonetic bubble-guards—who left me my tools for drawing when I explained their importance to my well-being, my very short-term well-being.

  I turned to a blank page and, as always, it seemed to ask: what will you draw next? I no longer want to be a white reflection of all, yet nothing; will you make me into something? It was an old-fashioned thing, this paper, yet without it, I’d be barred from doing my work.

  There’s a weird quirk among virtually all the alien races, call it a ramped-up sensitivity of privacy, a robust proprietary sense of self, and all of that is backed up by laws with terrible penalties. It came down to one overriding rule—NO PHOTOGRAPHY ALLOWED! If you were caught making vids or using any mechanical device for direct image capture of any creature, anyone or anyplace not your own, you’d lose more than your equipment, perhaps even a limb.

  However, drawing and painting is not only encouraged, it is always an honor among aliens to have yourself or your possessions portrayed this way. By holding my sketchbook high as an all-access charm, I could virtually say open sesame and pass through any barrier, like some great nobleman, into the most exclusive and intimate settings. In short, aliens love artists. Just not this one, not now. Murder is frowned on even out here in the hinterlands of space. It doesn’t help me that the attempted assassination was on a beloved stateswoman. Now I am despised. My plummet from favor was steep indeed.

  My head drooped, and my eyes fell on my flannel prison uniform. It was humiliating to be forced to wear what amounted to pajamas, with damnably cute black spots, like a child in his new Dalmatian onesie. The cursed clothes even had a flap in the back. All it lacked was a hood with ears and a tail. I picked up my pencil and began to draw myself as a pitiful spotted puppy. Next to the puppy I placed a grinning executioner holding a massive and bloody ax. She was there to decapitate me and make my fur into a dog schmatta. This was the frightening memory I’d dredged up from my childhood, a cartoon about an evil lady who killed people’s pet
s. To strengthen the composition I added some recently headless dog corpses placed artfully about. Gallows humor.

  The door to my cell whooshed open and ended with a loud clank that sent echoes back to me from the catacomb of tightly packed jail cells outside my door. In sauntered my naked-faced mechanical lawyer, Perri. It was spooky how much he resembled the miniature robot drone my older brother, Bill, used to torment me.

  “Mr. Laudent Fridolupe Granger.” He always irritatingly called me by my full given name. “I am Perri Bricklayer, Esquire,” trumpeted my robo-lawyer.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, please speak more quietly.”

  “I’ve made a deal for you, no execution; you’ll be set free in no time at all,” said Perri, in a self-congratulatory and supercilious manner.

  “This is fantastic news. I don’t know how to thank you.” All the tension in my body flowed away. I nearly wept. Perri puffed with pride in his accomplishment.

  “Working it out in earthly terms, I believe that I can offer you hard labor for one hundred and twenty-five years. All you need to do is sign this admission of guilt and then I can go on to matters of more significance.”

  This evil twist devastated then enraged me. “So, I’m insignificant, a trivial detail to you?”

  “It’s like this, based on what I have, odds are I’ll win two or three of my easiest cases today. Yours, I have no chance of winning. You’re a lost cause. Why waste time on you?”

  “Listen, you clockwork crook; you expect me to sign this thing that guarantees me years of anguish and pain?” He looked back at me blankly, and gestured for me to sign the document by tapping it with his finger impatiently. I took a swing at him. Unfortunately for me, I connected. THWANG!