Isidis Tribunal Records
CONTENT WARNING
GORY VIOLENCE AND FICTIONAL BIGOTRY
I DON’T THINK IT’S AS BAD AS IT SOUNDS MAYBE
“Our system of justice is thus,” began the adjudicator, a tall sparrow with a row of chitinous plates down her back. Harrell wasted no time in roaring with fury and vaulting over the table to jab his thumbs into her eyes.
She bounced back in her chair, blood and humors running down her face. The attack barely disturbed her formal posture.
“Are you serious? Is this actually, really your plan? Your fate’s been decided. You’re going to want to listen,” she continued, gradually growing muffled and raspy. Aside from human-supremacist tattoos (and scars, where patterns meant to wound synthetic minds were recently removed), Harrell was natural-born and unmodified, but expertly crushed bone and snapped sinew in his hands. The fact that the unnatural feathered thing so calmly scolded him while he tore it apart only fed his fury: It must’ve been a puppet, or it mutilated its pain-response at some point. He soon found out: After pulling a stringy radio from its skull, it collapsed in a heap.
The wall opened up to admit another, identical perversion of nature. He rushed it, but the air in the doorway crystallized, and an impulse pitched him into the far wall.
“Please, sit.” The adjudicator said again, smoothing her feathers and taking the chair next to her mangled corpse. Harrell prepared to spring again, but a threatening shimmer in the air compelled him to behave, merely glowering.
“Our system of justice is thus: Everyone within our reach is unequivocally entitled to remediation and rehabilitation, but not necessarily from the people they hurt. Unfortunately, you—”
Harrell stood up and spat (at the floor, so the shimmering field wouldn’t put his eye out), sending his chair skittering backwards.
“You abominations don’t get to decide real humans’ fates,” he sneered, “Your destruction of the natural order has already gone too far!”
The adjudicator’s crest flared up. She stared for a second.
“Whatever happened to make you so angry, I hope you can get help. As I was saying, unfortunately, you and your posse assaulted so many people that we can’t find an organization in Terragen space—”
“Human space.”
“Terragen. Space. Willing to look after your rehabilitation. And Earth won’t take you back.”
Harrell paused. He’d never considered what might happen if the furry monsters gave up on their limp-wristed “restorative justice” system.
“Thankfully, the homeworld Aumilau agreed to take you in—”
“No!”
The adjudicator smiled very slightly as Harrell howled again and flung his chair at her. It froze abruptly in midair, caught by the room’s inertial sinks.
It was almost poetic: The most xenophobic individual born or built in two centuries would be sent to live with the strangest neighbors of humanity and their descendants. She worried that it approached cruelty, but immersion in the culture (and hopefully not the endoplasmic pools) of the venerable slime-molds might be the only thing that could get Harrell over his ridiculous hostility.
And he wouldn’t have any success punching them.
The adjudicator stood while he tried to attack the barrier, mostly succeeding in getting his hands stuck.
“Their ship will arrive to transport you tomorrow. This decision has been approved by the Judicial Council of Mars, in case you want to check.”
She looked down at her inert corpse, and sighed, crouching to drag it out.
“Fix your shit.”