by Tom Shepherd
“That’s what I’m here for. When is the trial, and what are the charges?”
Vodenicharov punched up a code and a holographic display appeared over his desk. It was Tyler’s new client.
The Warden reviewed his record. “Prisoner J-11-1047-9404, Arrupt Kilub Riff—Acts of Piracy, twenty six counts. Guilty as charged. Sentenced to electrocution last Wednesday.”
“You still do that?” Tyler said.
“Friend Tyler, what is electrocution?” Mr. Blue said.
He didn’t wait for the warden to respond. “Over two thousand volts are passed through the body, which can reach an internal temperature of 100 degrees Celsius. The eyeballs sometimes melt.”
Mr. Blue ‘s mouth opened and a green tongue flopped out. Tyler had seen this gesture before. It was the Quirt-Thymean nonverbal equivalent for “What the fuck?”
Warden Vee shrugged. “Can’t hang a Dengathi. Neck’s too stout. Lethal injections are illegal on Gagarin-3. Anti-drug policy, you know. I wanted to shoot them, but firing squads are considered inhumane by the new Commonwealth government. That leaves two or three choices. Hard freezing doesn’t work on a species that hibernates, and poison gas is problematic to creatures who can hold their breath over half an hour. Ectotherms die quickly when electrocuted, so the Territorial Court ruled for the Frogs to fry next Tuesday.”
“Like cantina food,” Tyler muttered.
Mr. Blue tried to speak, but words failed the Quirt-Thymean. Small wonder, since Indigo was one of the most kind-hearted sentient beings Tyler had ever encountered.
“So, you don’t find electrocution inhumane?” Tyler said.
“A lot of star-faring nations want them burned at the stake, or worse.” Vodenicharov got fresh cup of coffee from his office food dispenser. “Sure I can’t offer you something?”
“Clear answers, Warden. How did the Commonwealth convict my client less than ninety days after he was apprehended?”
He smiled affably. “You know the old cliché. Swift justice in frontier courts.”
Frontier my ass. The Gagarin system was discovered by Brian Brightstar six hundred years ago. Its orange dwarf star is only 77.5 light years from home. You’re a real-time comm link from Terra even without Apexcom.
“Prisoner Arrupt was an Able-Bodied Sailor and backup bridge crew,” Mr. Blue said. “He wasn’t command structure. Why did he rate accelerated prosecution?”
“Good question,” the Warden said. “He didn’t.”
“How many pirates are you holding at this facility?” Tyler said.
“Forty-six thousand, give or take.”
“And how many defendants await a trial date?”
“None.”
Tyler shook his head. “You’re telling me the Commonwealth tried every prisoner—forty-six thousand, give or take—in three months?”
“Correct.” Vodenicharov sniffed his coffee. “Ummm. You really should try this Java. I import organically grown arabica beans from Indonesia.”
Tyler pressed him. “No way you gave all the defendants a fair trial. You’d have to hold five hundred a day.”
“Easy-peasy.” He set down the cup. “Group prosecutions. Tried them in lots of one hundred. Averaged only ten trials per day.”
“Who represented the accused?” Mr. Blue said.
“The Territorial Authority tasked android defense counsels. They didn’t do a bad job, according to post-conviction summaries.”
“Robot defenders?” Mr. Blue said. “That is… highly creative.”
“Thank you, Prince Zenna.”
Tyler suppressed a bitter laugh. Indigo’s people are high context, indirect communicators. He’s telling you this justice system sucks, dickhead.
“How many acquittals did your robo-barristers obtain?” Mr. Blue said.
The Warden laughed. “Any other questions?”
“You never answered Mr. Blue’s inquiry. Why the death sentence for an ordinary crewman?”
“Mr. Matthews, every star sailor aboard a pirate vessel is guilty of crimes against civilization. Let’s take a look at your client.”
Warden Vee entered a command and a file popped open, scattering documents in a grid perpendicular to his desktop. He rearranged them with a finger touch, selected one, and expanded it to full size. Arrupt’s face appeared to the left of the enlarged text.
“Arrupt Kilub Riff case file. Dishonorably discharged TCE-3098 from the Dengathi Naval Service—who, by the way, are eager as anybody to try and fry these brigands swiftly. He signed aboard the Howling Tadpole five years ago, Damage Control Specialist. DNS sources confirm your report that Arrupt subbed as Aux Navigator on at least three occasions.”
“Was his ship involved in an attack while he navigated the vessel?” Tyler said.
“I don’t have that information.”
“Don’t you think it’s an important mitigating factor?”
“No, Mr. Matthews, I do not.” Vodenicharov exited the records and the space above his gunmetal desk cleared of images. “A mad dog is a mad dog. A pirate patching up the life support module on deck twenty-two is no less a pirate than the rogue who’s flying the ship.”
“I disagree. We’ll be appealing Mr. Arrupt’s sentence.”
“You can’t. Sorry again.”
“Are you an attorney, Warden?” Mr. Blue asked quietly.
“No, Prince Zenna. But the Commonwealth convicted the prisoners under the Emergency Security Act.”
Tyler drummed his fingers on the armrest. You didn’t have to be a legal scholar to understand what the law said. All convictions final. Sentences to be carried out at the earliest possible date. No appeals.
The ESA was a product of three centuries of terrorized colonies and shipping lanes unsafe for ordinary commerce. Pirates were universally regarded as a plague infecting the bloodstream of a more-or-less healthy galactic community. Naval forces of most star faring nations gave no quarter to space bandits, killing them on sight.
Tyler’s sister Rosalie and Cousin Julieta had personally eliminated over one hundred pirates or pirate sympathizers apiece in their brief careers as members of the ancient Iberian league of female dispatchers, Justicia Para Todos. Although at first he was appalled to learn that baby sister Rosalie—sweet-smiling twenty-one-year old, whom the Family called the Red Fox—and lovely Cousin and Medical Doctor Julieta Solorio had coolly wacked so many bad guys, Tyler decided he could argue justifiable homicide when they got caught.
He doubted any court would convict them, and not just because Rosalie was a doll-faced beauty and dark-haired Julieta had a figure that could tempt a mystical saint to wander off the path to enlightenment.
The world of piracy contained nothing of swashbuckling adventures, where fiction writers painted them as mistreated soldiers-of-fortune, striking back at an unjust world.
Pirates did bad things to innocent people. They were brutes and blackguards. Criminals, not antiheroes. Closer to Attila the Hun than Robin of Locksley.
They lingered near Jump Gates along well-traveled routes to spring upon lightly defended cargo vessels, damage their propulsion systems, and board the hapless starcraft to do what buccaneers have done since the days of wooden ships. Pillage the freight, rape and murder crew and passengers, and sell the survivors into slavery in remote systems where societal values permitted involuntary servitude.
Thankfully, most star-faring civilizations decreed the slave trade illegal in all forms. The Matthews Family had fought the bondage of sentient beings for a hundred Terran years.
Tyler’s mother commanded the powerful Matthews Interstellar Industries battle fleet of nearly a thousand heavily armed vessels. Her primary job was to protect M-double-I trade routes by ridding the stars of pirates. In that enterprise, she won the admiration of multiple star nations and rival corporations alike. Some alien sovereignties, who were not on speaking terms with their neighbors, joined hands and non-humanoid limbs to applaud the merciless defeat Bianca Matthews had visited upon the pirate armada
at the battle for Jump Gate Alpha.
Tyler’s father, T. Noah Matthews III, celebrated her victory by confiscating all the pirate vessels and selling them at below-market prices. Noah ran the Matthews Corporation from the Family headquarters in Kansas City. He was easily the most powerful, wealthiest individual in the Terran Commonwealth.
He was also the reason Tyler and most of the Matthews-Solorio offspring had opted for a life at the edges of galactic civilization. Tyler loved his father, but he needed to get away from the overbearing sonuvabitch and make his own way. Both of Tyler’s siblings, J.B. and Rosalie, plus Cousins Julieta and Esteban—children of Bianca’s brother, Senator Xavier Solorio and his wife Camilla—joined Tyler’s newly minted Star Lawyers Corporation, specifically designed to practice juris prudence beyond Terran space.
Noah grudgingly gave the new corporation his blessings and registered Star Lawyers as an independent subsidiary of Matthews Interstellar. It was a tax dodge that Tyler and J.B. grudgingly accepted.
But now Tyler argued on behalf of a low-level pirate, one of the multitude captured when Admiral Matthews issued a “surrender or die” ultimatum to the enemy fleet. And Tyler was here at her specific request, in the hope this froggy fellow could provide a lily pad to hop across the pond to Pirate space.
Now that Able-bodied Sailor Arrupt had been convicted and sentenced under the Emergency Security Act, there was only one possibility left. Tyler grumbled wordlessly. He hated to play the Rodney card so early in this venture, but you play the hand you’re dealt or lose the game.
“Warden, forgive me. I need a minute to send a text.”
“Of course.”
“And I’ll take some of that coffee, please. Cream, no sugar.”
“Also, please?” Prince Zenna said. “Double cream, triple sugar.”
Vodenicharov beamed. “You’ll love it.”
Tyler tapped away at his datacom. The message took two minutes to send. He put down the datacom and was accepting a cup when the Warden’s office communicator buzzed. Vodenicharov picked it up in single conversation mode, then promptly leapt out of his chair to a military position of attention.
Tyler sipped the coffee. “Not bad for a Jakarta generic.”
Mr. Blue stirred his cup on its saucer. “What manner of cat do you suppose the Warden employs to shit the beans?”
“No, Indigo,” Tyler said. “That’s Kopi luwak. Eaten, partially digested, and defecated by the Indonesian palm civit cat. Expensive as hell. This is a much cheaper blend.”
The Warden repeatedly said some combination of “Yes, sir… of course, sir… immediately, sir.” He was ashen faced when the long-distance conversation ended. “That was… that was Roland Rooney, Secretary General and Chief Executive of the Terran Commonwealth.”
“Was it now?” Tyler swished his cup. “And what did His Excellency have to say?”
Vodenicharov took his seat and picked up the coffee cup. His hand was shaking. “He… he said he admired the work I have done here. He promised me a post in the new government. Deputy Undersecretary for Correctional Facilities at all Terran colonies and star bases. Promotion to Rear admiral.”
“Congratulations. Anything else?”
“Yes… uh… the Chief Executive postponed the execution of Arrupt Kilub Riff and ordered his immediate release to your custody.”
“Good. What else?”
“He said if Arrupt—”
“Mister Arrupt.”
“Yes, sir. If Mister Arrupt assists in your legal mission to Pirate space, he will be granted full clemency.”
“Was there anything else?”
The Warden cast a furtive look at Tyler. “The Secretary General asked you to remind his son to call home weekly. He said, ‘Rodney’s mother misses him.’”
Just like a good politician. Bargains made, favors exchanged, everybody wins. Now we are partners in crime. No wonder Dad loves the game but refuses to accept high office from any government. Well, he also hates Roland Rooney and his Energy Consortium, who bought the government earlier this year. So, this is a double-win for M-double-I.
“I’ll pass along the request to my Lieutenant.” Tyler placed the cup on Vodenicharov’s desk and stood. “Where do I collect Mr. Arrupt?”
The Warden escorted Tyler and Mr. Blue through a series of DNA-scan “airlocks” where stern-faced corrections officers performed the ritual of access-egress behind armorized glass, reinforced by blast-resistant forcefields. The guards did their duty without comment, but Tyler recognized the look of utter contempt in their eyes as he passed each checkpoint. He had come to set a pirate free, and they all knew it. No wonder people hate lawyers.
When they reached the Gate House, Warden Vee asked the CPO supervisor why the detainee was not present.
“Sir, you ordered the expeditious release of Prisoner J-11-1047-9404.”
The Warden bristled. “You opened the gate and let a pirate walk?”
“No, sir!” the Chief Petty Officer said. “Representatives of the Matthews Corporation signed for Arrupt Kilub Riff. Two human females. He left with them.”
Tyler smirked. Rosalie and Julietta.
“You released a dangerous Dengathi criminal to a pair of Terran women?” Vodenicharov said. “Do you know what he could do to them?”
“Sir, I did not know—”
“Not a problem.” Tyler waggled a hand. “I sent my sister and cousin to collect him.” As long as they don’t gun down the poor bastard in the parking lot.
He checked his messages. Thumbs up, Ty. We got him. Rosalie.
“I hope our collaboration today has been satisfactory,” Warden Vodenicharov said with a forced smile.
“The epitome of professionalism,” Tyler grinned. Well, isn’t this nice. I’m so happy, I could shit roses.
“Thank you, Mr. Warden,” Mr. Blue said. “Your cheap coffee was surprisingly tasty.”
Tyler hurried through the politically correct language about how he will mention the efficient management of Burl Cain in his next report to Kansas City… blah… blah… have a nice day. He needed fresh air before he puked on the Warden’s footgear.
When Tyler and Zenna-Zenn emerged from the detention facility, the orange Gagarin sun had rolled over the eastern mountains behind Mae Jemison City. Days on G-4 lasted thirty-five Terran hours, but the calendar year whizzed by in two hundred local days. Some exobiologists claimed these long-lived, highly stable orange dwarf systems, with rocky core planets in the hab zone, presented the best possible environment for the evolution of sentient life. But this one was an exception.
Lots of flora and fauna, nothing smart enough to invent a tool or build a fire. Humans settled the unclaimed Gagarin system early in the twenty-fifth century. Today, G-4 represented humanity’s showcase colony, despite its massive prison complex.
A cynic might add, or because of it. The Commonwealth had a long history of incarcerating law-breakers, not always with respect for due process and the rights of the accused.
Four months earlier he had explored another Terran-class world orbiting an orange dwarf, when the Star Lawyers infiltrated the forbidden sanctuary of the Suryadivan sacred planet, Adao-2. That was where he learned his sweet sister Rosalie was a professional assassin. It was also before M-double-I battle squadrons, assisted by ships of the Quirt-Thyme Empire, crushed the largest pirate armada ever assembled.
Seemed like a dozen lifetimes ago.
As the morning glow of an orange sun warmed his face, Tyler reflected on the irony of this moment. The only reason for the starship Patrick Henry’s stopover at G-4 was to spring a pirate from death row and conscript him into service. And he pursued this course at the request of his pirate-killing mother.
Tyler shaded his eyes to the light. Behind him, to the left and right, an endless barrier of forcefields laced with razor wire stretched into the morning mist. Razor wire. Really? Well, it was a fail-safe. Even power failure would not bring the walls of Warden Vee’s Jericho tumbling down.
; “Indigo, do you see them?”
“I hear movement among the parked vehicles,” Mr. Blue said.
Prince Zenna’s auditory system was at least five times more powerful than humans, so Tyler scanned the covered parking area in front of the prison. Corrections engineers had built a large lot for wheeled and flying vehicles. Guards and staff had to get to work. Visitors needed a place to stow their rides. Of course, there were outer gate checkpoints and embedded barriers in the pavement, plus multiple tractor beams to haul down anti-grav skimmers.
Movement among the parked street craft caught Tyler’s eye. He pulled out his data com and jogged toward the spot. “Rosalie, is that you?”
“Right here.” The figure on the left waved. “We’re searching the parking stalls for Mr. Arrupt.”
“Why?”
“Because soon as we passed the gate house, that dumbshit bounced away, heading for the parking lot. We figured you didn’t come forty thousand light years to collect a dead Frog, so we didn’t blast him,” Rosalie said. “This time.”
Tyler found her standing in the shade of a parking stall. “You could’ve stunned him.”
“No can do.” She holstered the weapon at her ankle, pulled down the pantleg of her yellow Matthew Corporation jumpsuit. “The doctor nixed all weapons.”
Julieta Solorio, M.D. and JPT dispatcher, emerged from the row of parked vehicles behind her. She was slightly shorter than Rosalie, but they shared the Solorio family look. Oval face with large, expressive eyes and full lips. Curvaceous body and shoulder length tresses. Julieta was a black haired beauty. Rosalie’s tended to be dark red, but she toggled among several color groups.
“La rana just came out of hypothermic hibernation,” Julieta said. “Even a stun blast would’ve killed him.”
“Greetings, Doctor Solorio,” Mr. Blue said. “I have a pain in my—”
“Where is our client?” Tyler demanded.
A strong male voice with a lightly Caribbean accent spoke from behind him. “Right here, Boss.”
Inspector Demarcus Platte, head of Star Lawyers two-person security department, dragged the limp Dengathi down a row of parked vehicles and dropped him at the managing partner’s feet. Platte was as tall as Tyler, but whereas the twenty-six-year old attorney was lanky and slim, Demarcus was solid muscle. He spoke four languages, including Japanese, and had the dogged tenacity of a homicide detective stalking a serial killer.