The Man waited, seated by his defender on a cold, hard bench at a long table. His defender was exceptional. It had learned how to download the classified updates to the law that the High and Low Councils had scrambled to create to assure the Man's guilt. The Council would pretend the updates were always there, so he’d needed to know the charges. Only the elites had access to private defenders, covertly commissioned by the Councils themselves. His was a public one, but he had managed to tweak its highly encrypted core, ensuring its unwavering loyalty.
His defender had relayed the many charges, chief among them the unholy trinity not invoked in over a millennium: Subversion, Sedition, and Insurrection. And another: Slavery. All courts painted him a threat to the Protectorate.
A smile crept across his face.
The suns' light outside the domed court grew soft. His stomach grumbled. He yawned and stretched long legs under the table. He was impatient, waiting for months, each prison cell and court a new waiting room.
News of his trial had spread like wildfire, but the day’s events would not transmit to the general public. Despite his mixed reputation as a maverick and a rebel, the Council of Eight was against it, were they to sentence him to Erasure.
A cold weight settled on his shoulders. Exile to the extreme, erasure meant no memory or record of him would remain. The Imperial Protectorate's surveillance apparatus was a distributed network with a reach vast enough to do it. Enforcers would stand ready to eliminate any who would dare say his name.
Orphaned for most of his life, he had grown used to solitude, but now, facing Erasure, he realized it would sever his last thread to humanity. Perhaps he shouldn’t have led such a cloistered life. He’d once known something like family, where love and acceptance reigned.
The court’s side door whooshed open and the Council of Eight strode in. Their faces were hard, making eye contact with him, backs straight as rods. One of them, the Fourth, bristled after meeting his gaze. How did you vote? He wondered.
The eight Councilors raised and lowered their gavels as they took their seats. Seven of them looked to the First Councilor on their far-right as he slowly and steadily removed a folded parchment from his robes, holding it as if it would burn his fingertips.
Paper and ink...impermanent...how fitting! The Man knew, now. They had sentenced him to Erasure, a punishment thought to have vanished from use millennia ago—
Though how could anyone know, if the sentence did its job? Well, no one has dared attempt what I have.
The Man locked smiling eyes with the First Councilor. The First's lips curled into a sneer, inhaling sharply and raising the sheet as he read:
“Subsequent to this pronouncement, [Name Redacted], hereafter known as Accused, shall be removed immediately from this courtroom to fulfill our sentencing. The Accused, for their crimes against the Imperial Protectorate, and above all, against all who have suffered and perished at their hands is sentenced to... Erasure. Enforcers, remove this person from the eyes and the memory of the Protectorate,” bellowed the First. Metal clinked behind him—Enforcers approaching.
The Man was fortunate to be able to make a final request, but the Councilors, save one, didn’t know that. “Most esteemed Council, The Erasee is ready to make their final request,” his faithful defender blurted out. The Enforcers froze mid-step.
“No last wishes for the Erased!” the First snapped.
The Man raised a finger. “Correct! However, the Most Honorable High Council is required to hear a request. Defender?”
"Quite right. Esteemed Councilors, the second Corollary under Item 2 of Subsection 33.4 states—"
“Quiet! That is not necessary. Fourth?” The First Councilor turned to face the Madam Fourth, who nodded. Her eyes met the Man's for half a moment. His heart raced.
The First clicked his tongue. “What is the request?”
“Honorable Councilors, I request to be exiled in a B-20.3 Enforcer-Class ship for—”
“Absolutely not,” the First spat.
The Fourth gently cleared her throat. “The Council is also required to hear in full the reasons for the request before voting.” She sat back down.
“Very well,” the First scoffed. “State your reasons.”
Most Honorable Council, that Enforcer-class ship contains a large chamber which shall be conducive to tinkering. As you all know, I am an engineer, and I wish to be equipped with a humble workspace to help stave off isolation.”
The Madam Fourth stood again, stated, “Let us now vote.”
“All for?” asked the First. Five gavels rose in unison. The First's ostensibly rested on the table. Five gavels dropped. The Madam Fourth's, dropped last, by a hair. They locked eyes, a flicker of understanding shared.
“Let it be done. Enforcers, see that the Erased's ship be of the said class and model. On this matter I must specify, however. They shall not be allowed into the requested chamber until deposited. Let the ship's agent eject them into space at the slightest hint of subterfuge. I repeat: Enforcers, remove the Erased from the eyes and memory of the Protectorate.”
The Man was ready.
All the arrangements, except for the exile ship, had likely been made before his trial. His sentence had always been a foregone conclusion. After only an hour, two Enforcers arrived and escorted him to the launchpad on the roof of a towering structure nearby.
His last words to sentient beings now spoken—his last sight of a dear friend.
The Enforcers herded him onto the craft. Once aboard, it lurched upwards, forcing him to a startled crouch. He wasn’t surprised they didn't wait until he was seated—standard treatment for an insurrectionist. The passenger cabin was small and dimly-lit. The force of gravity eased, allowing him to stand and walk stiffly to the only seat near the only window in this new little waiting room. He almost couldn’t believe this was his last. Through the window, he watched blue sky fade to blackness, revealing his reflection.
The man saw a dark and weathered face, each line a trace of what he’d endured. He had often forgone sleep lately—for his time was running out, as the dark hollows under his eyes attested...
He awoke, the window cold against his head. He was grateful for the nap, and for the stillness of his days sequestered on-planet, where equations ran unbroken behind closed eyes, where his plan deepened its roots.
His ship had to be approaching it by now. He gripped his seat.
He was thrown forward. His shoulder slammed into the wall. He gasped, sliding to the floor. Slumped against the wall, it then opened, and he collapsed in pain, sprawled belly down. The comforting hum of the ship's engines ceased. Disoriented, he looked up and saw his lab—at last!
After painfully regaining his feet, he observed the bare chamber. It didn’t yet look like a lab, but a lab it would become. Inching over to the side wall for support, he hobbled toward a control panel waist-high on the opposite side. He pressed a button, and a large, panoramic display opened above.
He looked out into what might have passed for space, were it not so utterly black. He’d known there’d be no stars, but knowing was different from facing...the Void. This was intimate emptiness. Beckoning, oppressive. The weight of unreality settled on him as he faced his silent canvas.
Thank you for reading!
The next chapter is here —> A Game of Life
You can also buy me a coffee!
Quietly dark. Reading “Name Redacted” was haunting.
Having been through a heavily weighted court system more than once, I can really relate to this piece.