The Warden's Gambit
This is a (late) submission for Day 21 of Bradley Ramsey’s Flash Fiction February
Race: Homo sapiens
Charge: Two hundred and three counts of Xenocide.
Verdict: Guilty
Sentencing: Planetary incarceration on Prison Planet 3.4022e.
A slender three fingered hand motioned and the holographic court record dissipated. A thin, rigid figure stood, smoothed his tentacular forelocks and brushed motes of dust off of a flawless uniform.
It was time.
The communication cascade began with a simple nod.
Molecular locks released allowing the transcription of sequestered genes that encoded an understanding of Galactic Standard. Nanoscopic comlinks embedded in the central nervous system of every Homo sapien on the planet activated. And finally, every screen on Planet 3.4022e displayed a carefully manicured mien—stoic but not cold, authoritative but not cruel. Within microseconds, all sentient life on the planet had the knowledge and context to understand the gravity of what their predicament and were looking at their Warden.
A bright strip of light illuminated an angular face. Thin lips parted and he initiated the pronouncement.
Humanity
Three hundred thousand years ago, your ancestors were sentenced to a life of hardship on this planet in payment for the atrocities they conducted in their campaign to dominate the Milk Way Galaxy. You were given a blank slate as a species, to try again; to show that your potential for evil was not innate to your species and simply a matter of circumstance and environment. But over these three hundred Millenia you have shown no sign of rehabilitation. Time has shown that cruelty and domination are inherent to not just your nature but also your genetic makeup.
As such, I, Debrac Fee’bol, Warden of Prison Planet 3.4022e, have the duty to declare that the Execution of your species will commence in 24 Earth hours.
The light faded and Debrac sat in his chair. The stage was set, the information he had been allowed to share had been conveyed. The next 24 hours would be important, perhaps more than the past three hundred thousand years. It was in their hands now. His mind went to two days ago.
He’d requested the summons, altering protocol. He was surprised when it was granted. Within minutes of his request he was transported before the Galactic Council.
“Before you begin your appeal,” said a deep, gravely voice without preamble. “I would remind the Warden of the Council’s edict. We will not grant another request to postpone—”
“Actually, your Eminence… I agree.”
A gravid pause followed Debrac’s gambit.
“Then what have you come here for?” said another voice, dulcet and hollow.
A breach in decorum, he thought. This may work. “Humanity has earned their dues—I have come to accept that—but the fulfillment of their sentence provides a unique opportunity, one that I had not realized until recently.”
“And what is that?”
“What if,” said Debrac. “When there is no doubt of their fate—when there is no hope, no advantage—what if there are some who show signs of reform? What do we do with them?”
The silence that reigned after his question spoke volumes.
Another smaller but no less authoritative voice spoke then. “We will continue this in my quarters Debrac.”
“As you wish, your Supreme Eminence.”
The Command Center was tense. Chaos ensued throughout the world. This was to be expected, he thought. Response patterns had long been established. Disaster had bred malicious intent, not unity as he had hoped. But this time there was no escape. There were no factions that could hoard resources, no borders that could be patrolled, no evidence that could be denied. All of humanity was culpable and no one possessed control over their fate. It was an indisputable fact. It was under these circumstances that, theoretically, unity might present itself. One could never know.
He scanned the screens, cautiously optimistic that pockets of redemptive motive would declare themselves. They showed the Americas, Africa, Eurasia. Utter chaos, all.
There were twelve hours left.
Still time, he thought.
Never in his his wildest dreams did Debrac expect to find himself in the quarters of Gignail Aspir, leader of the Galactic Council, but there he was. His largesse filled the room leaving little room for Debrac to breathe.
“What do you expect me to do if what you hope for comes true, Warden?”
“What is right. What is fair,” he answered.
“What is fair, Warden, is to provide justice to the billions of victims present among the Galaxy. Do you disagree with this?”
“I do not, your Eminence.”
“Let us not mistake who we are talking about. Humanity breeds a repetitive cycle of war and domination—the Babylonians, the Mongols, the Romans, the Byzantines, the Spanish, the British, the Americans, the Chinese… Need I go on?”
“No. I am aware of the track record of my tenure.”
“They are all descendants of the Humanic Force, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Then, how, would you expect any differently from them?”
Debrac paused. “One may never be too sure of what can happen.”
“Your hope is nauseating.”
“I do not like to be unprepared.”
“And if I say yes?” asked Aspir.
“I only ask that you respond in kind.”
The gigantic figure of Aspir shifted causing mounds of gelatinous flesh to settle into the concavity of his burrow, that which housed his mass in his quarters. The sight unsettled Debrac.
“I will consider it, Warden.”
Debrac inclined his head. “I appreciate that, your Eminence.”
Debrac stood up at the first sign of sustained altruism. It had occurred in South Los Angeles in the United States of America, the densest population outside of Rio de Janeiro, Brasil. It was small, but sustained, occurring just five hours before the Execution.
An hour after, another pocket occurred in a small port town of Suriname and grew to take over the whole country. Hope surged within Debrac. Soon, three more loci of sustained unity presented themselves and Debrac readied the transmission to be seen before the Galactic Council.
Debrac relayed his observations—over five thousand humans had shown sustained signs of altruism despite the assured destruction of their race. The very thing he had hoped for had occurred and he meant to see their lives preserved. But, Aspir was not there. In his place stood Genvene, who’s voice rumbled like stones crashing through a canyon.
Debrac knew it was futile—it was clear a change in power had occurred—but he had to ask. “His Eminence, Lord Aspir, and I had made arrangements. Though there are few, I have come to report the presence of true rehabilitation amongst Humanity.”
“I know it well, Debrac,” said Genvene. “And it was a noble effort. Truly. However, the human condition is such that even the remote risk they could mount a smiliar galactic campaign as what they were sentenced for is not worth the risk. Their sentence will commence.”
Debrac stood tall at the pronouncement and nodded his head. “I understand, your Eminence. I would ask one last favor, if you don’t mind.”
Genvene inclined his head. “What do you ask of us?”
“I would be among them when the time comes,” said Debrac.
Genvene’s eyebrows rose and a tentacular forelock whipped about like a feline’s tail. Debrac smiled. Even his comparison’s were terrestrial in nature now.
“Are you sure?” asked Genvene.
Debrac nodded. “I am.”
Genvene inclined his head. “Very well. See to your fate, Warden.”
Debrac turned to leave hardly being able to keep a smile from his face. He was happy he was right. Humanity was his life’s work, his passion project, and he would be glad and honored to die with the best of them.