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“We are now in day four of our round the clock coverage of the Special Grand Jury sessions before Congress on the proposed impeachment of President Sturn. For those of you just now joining us via chip we apologize for the recent outages. The system has been overwhelmed. Our engineers worry that five years of no patches or updates has really crippled our ability to keep our chip banks online. We will attempt to bring you up to speed momentarily.
“But first, let’s check in with Anala, who’s been in DC since the trial began. Anala, what’s the latest?”
The camera cut to a light-skinned slender woman in a blue pant suit. Her jet-black hair cut a severe angle across her forehead, the sides pushed back in a regulation fade. Behind her, the blurred scene of the Senate floor came into focus.
“I’m here at the Continental Congress Hearing on whether to impeach President Sturn. I only have a few minutes before we’re back in session.” Anala pointed to the chaos behind her and punched a command into the small remote in her hand. The drone camera hovered above the room, a sea of light brown faces coming into focus.
“Neilson, we haven’t seen this many nations represented in one place in years. As you know, air travel has been one of the hardest hit industries. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the delegates you see here came by boat.”
The drone flew closer to the elongated half-circle desk at the front of the room. Men and women, all in suits matching Anala’s, clamored around their respective desks.
“Anala,” Neilson cut in from the studio, “it appears as though most of the desks are empty. Is this a closed session?”
“No, Neilson.” Anala’s voice rose over there clamor of different languages being picked up by the drone’s microphone. “What you’re seeing is the long reaching after effects of the Glitch. Four years later, many of these nations have yet to recover enough to appoint representatives. Our sources say that the twenty or so people you see at the head of the room are all that’s left of our Seven Sister Nations.”
Neilson asked from the news studio, “Where is President Sturn through all this?”
“He’s been rather low-key, whispering with his counsel in the far corner to my right. He only answers in quick, short sentences when he’s compelled by Justice Petit.”
“Thank you, Anala.” The anchor’s voice broke in. “Now, while we have time, we’re going to show our viewers coverage from the morning session.”
The image changed to a wide shot of President Sturn sitting straight-edged behind a desk with a thin black microphone rising up from the table. He was flanked by academic looking seasoned lawyers. A team of younger, eager legal assistants filled the two desks behind him. His dark curls clung tight to his head, a new cut just for the camera drones. His russet skin, normally taut and vibrant, sagged; tugging at the deep-set lines around his eyes. Those muddy eyes refused to face the cameras, choosing to focus on a thin gold wedding band which he twisted around a long finger.
At the front of the room, Justice Petit adjusted her long black robe and took her place behind the raised pulpit. The large bailiff placed a docket in front of her and recited “Case number 2245-I1, Galactic Security Administration vs Sturn, now in session. Please silence all electronic devices.”
“President Sturn,” Justice Petit began, “You have been brought before this court on charges of domestic terrorism. The burden is placed on the Galactic Security Administration to prove these charges against you. However, you are compelled to testify. I will also remind you, Mr. President, that you will not have the protection of the fifth amendment.”
Voices in the background rose at that revelation. Justice Petit banged her gavel twice, demanding silence.
“First we will hear testimony from GSA’s chair Mr. Amicus. Then, your counsel will have the opportunity to rebut. After their testimonies we will break for recess and reconvene for your testimony Mr. President.” Justice Petit pointed the gavel at the lawyers on both sides, and then around the courtroom at the world leaders in witness. “Any questions on procedure?” Nobody made a sound.
“Alright,” she shuffled papers and swiped across her desk. A hologram microphone appeared in the center of the room, high above the proceedings. “This is Justice Petit. The date is May 1st, 2245. This is the evidentiary hearing on whether to bring forth formal charges against President Sturn. If this Committee finds that charges are warranted, impeachment proceedings will be scheduled. If no formal charges are filed at the end of this session, President Sturn will retain his appointment in office for the remainder of his term. At which—”
“Objection.” A smooth deep voice rose from the GSA desk. A tall man with silvering hair and a suit to match slid his chair back and stood.
“Do not object Mr. Amicus. We haven’t even started.” Justice Petit chided.
Amicus grabbed his lapels and screwed his face up, launching into his best pontification. “I’m sorry your honor but Mr. Sturn cannot return to office. Even if he is not impeached there is the matter of Executive Order 2194A-” The gavel cut him off.
Justice Petit cleared her throat and raised her voice toward the 3D hologram microphone. “Counselor, EO2194A40 is not up for discussion in these proceedings. We are here to review whether President Sturn is culpable in the events surrounding the Glitch on March 13, 2241. Anything that may or may not have occurred after that date are a matter for a separate hearing. Is that clear?”
“Of course, your honor. My deepest apologies.” Amicus’s rich honey voice reverberated through the room.
“Now, since you’re already up, why don’t you start with your opening statement?”
“Thank you, your honor.” Amicus cast his eyes low at his holopad and tapped a few codes onto the screen. He perused it for a moment then set it back on the desk and walked to the center of the room. “Brothers and sisters of our Seven Nations, thank you for coming here today to take part in this monumentous occasion. We will show, through testimony from members of the High Council and from Mr. Sturn himself, that the events of March 13, 2241 were more than preventable. They were orchestrated by Sturn as a ploy to remain in power indefinitely. We will—”
“Your honor.” The older lawyer to President Sturn’s left stood. His thick wavy hair was cropped close to his head, as were all the junior lawyers’.
“No need, Mr. Limine.” Justice Petit broke in. “Amicus, you were ordered not to discuss—”
“Your honor, I wasn’t going to mention the Executive Order. I can show, without bringing the EO into evidence that this was planned long before 2241.” He smiled at Justice Petit and she caught herself as a smile tried to form on her lips.
“You may continue.” Justice Petit nodded.
“Now where was I?” The grin widened across his face. “Ah, yes. Indefinite power. Mighty lofty goal for one man. But, we will show that in the two years leading up to that fateful day, unfortunately coined The Great Glitch, Mr. Sturn conspired with members of his Counsel and his family - yes former President Sturn as well - to cause a global catastrophe the likes of which the planet has never seen before. In doing so, along with other incidental agendas, the Sturns would hold onto the White House indefinitely. In the wake of the global tragedy, they miraculously ‘drafted’ their emergency operation plan in a matter of days, which canceled all electoral proceedings.” He stopped and glanced at Justice Petit, walking back to his desk.
“Not only did Mr. Sturn perpetrate these actions leading up to the so-called ‘glitch’ but he benefited greatly from our planet’s worst tragedy in history.” Amicus stood over his desk for a moment, letting the baritone of his voice carry the sermon to all corners of the half empty courtroom. Finally, he sat with a flourish, removing his glasses and flinging them on the table.
A slow clap rose from the other side of the room. The old round lawyer seated beside President Sturn hefted himself from his chair, still clapping. “What a show, Mr. Amicus. I think you missed your calling.” The lawyer scratched his bulbous nose and took a deep breath. He started toward the middle of the room, where the GSA’s representative had given his speech, then turned back to his desk. The camera picked up obvious overcompensation for an injured left leg. One hand on the desk for support, Limine began his dissertation.
“The facts of this case are plain and simple, and the verdict will be just as plain and just as simple. There was no conspiracy. There is no truth to this Truther movement. The cold hard, sad, fact of the matter is that our technology advanced as far as it could go. The public was still pushing for more more more, and there was no more to give. That’s why the White House issued the removal of all chips a full ten years before this happened. Did they know it was going to happen? No. Of course not. But any intelligent person could see that we couldn’t sustain that rapid growth. With all the hacking and recycling and who knows what that happened with those chips - those illegal chips by this point - it’s no wonder a glitch happened. The Citizen’s Network was doing a service to those Citizens who hadn’t removed their chips. The government knew that over half the population had defied orders to remove these unsafe chips, and yet it still tried to maintain the information network as a public service to those who needed it. As it still does today, I might add. Now, after going well above and beyond the call of duty, your president sits here today, accused of the most despicable acts imaginable. Your President. Have you no shame, people?”
The lawyer’s face was red with effort and beads of sweat prickled across his top lip. He wiped them with a dingy white pocket square and gently lowered himself onto his seat, favoring that left leg.
Amicus’s deep voice spoke up. “I think we both missed our callings Mr. Limine.”