I Am Legion

By Scott Clark

Responding to an emergency beacon, a contingent of Security Forces makes a grisly discovery: All five hundred people on board the station have been killed, tortured to death. An Unclassified, a humanoid mass murderer escaped from max penal is responsible. He wants revenge and starts a rampage that will end at one man and his family, the man who put him away, Carson Sampers.
Will he survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Clark
• Release date: Aug 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452320199

Book preview

Chapter 1

There was a thump as the ship nudged up against the hull. Creighton stood up and went over to the hatch. The rest of the men formed up behind him.

Ready, called back the pilot and the green light came on. With a push of a button the hatch came open and Creighton moved into the airlock.

Another button and the outer hatch came open exposing the entrance to the station.

Creighton dialed in and that hatch came open.

The men moved quickly into the station.

Phew, said one of the troopers grabbing his nose, What’s that?

It’s the smell of death, said Creighton.

The trooper nodded though he didn’t really know what Creighton was talking about. Raw recruits, the new breed, trained for contingencies that never happened, not particularly experienced with the world all that much or with much of the known either, cut off as most Earthers were from nature, sanitized and hermetically sealed up in modern cities. They wouldn’t know what that meant.

But Creighton knew. And his gut tightened.

Palmer, he said to one of the men beside him. "Take two men with you. Check out the systems. What isn’t up you get running again. We don’t know what’s happened or what all we’ll find. But we need this station to be fully functional again.

And turn off the beacon. We’re here so it’s done its job.

Okay, Sarge, said Palmer and he pointed at two others. With me.

The three of them went off down the hallway, the deck ringing with the sound of their boots.

The rest of you spread out and search, continued Creighton.

"Let’s go find out what happened.

Be alert, be on the defensive, he added. "We don’t know why they set the beacon. Could be anything, so be careful.

Teams of three.

He pointed to two near him. With me.

The others broke off and began to spread out through the station. And the sounds of their going disturbed the stillness.

Creighton took his men and began his own search. They started at the quarters near the entrance hall and went room by room from there.

They found no one; they found nothing. It was as if the station had been abandoned. But they knew this was not right. Creighton understood that when they came in. The question was simply finding them-- and dealing with the dead.

They moved down the corridor to another area. They found nothing there either.

There was no one around.

And all was quiet.

Sarge, said a voice in Creighton’s headset.

What is it, Shell?

We’re down here by the assembly hall. The doors won’t open. We’re trying to force them. If they don’t come, we’ll try and wedge one of them open enough to send in a probe.

I’m coming, said Creighton.

Y Corridor. At the end. I’ll send someone out to you.

Don’t need it, said Creighton looking at the commpad on his arm. I got a fix.

Keep looking, said Creighton to the two that were with him. Signal if you find something--anything.

They nodded and Creighton went out.

He found Y Corridor. At the end of it, Shell stood in front of a set of large double doors with two of the men.

There was a small gap in one of them.

The smell was stronger there.

Probe’s in, said Shell. Take a look.

Creighton touched his commpad and brought up the feed from the probe. The screen blinked and, when it came up, he was looking down from above.

What he was looking down on was a large number of people pressed in against the doors.

Piled in against the doors would have been more accurate. Except for the fact that they were upright, or mostly so, that they were piled against the doors was what it looked like.

There was no movement among them that he could see. They were still, motionless, as fixed and stationary as statues.

Creighton touched the screen and the picture moved. A full three-sixty look showed a large hall that was empty, empty except near the doors.

Creighton panned back to the people. There must have been a couple of hundred of them there. The contingent for jump stations was close to five hundred and this one was no exception. If there was no one anywhere else, and he was getting no reports of people anywhere else, that meant quite a number of people were there in that hall pressed up against the doors.

Why?

Creighton had no idea.

We’ll need the ‘key to the city,’ said Shell. "These doors aren’t coming open without some force.

Locked?

No, with the systems off, these doors are made to open up. The lock, if there is any, won’t function when system’s are offline. That’s for safety so people can get out.

Any other way in?

We didn’t look but there ought to be. It’s a pretty big hall.

Creighton pulled up the designs of the station on his commpad and examined them.

There it was—no, actually, two of them. One to the left and one right.

Let’s go, said Creighton and he went off to his left. Shell and the men followed him.

A few yards down, they found another corridor. It ran off to the right.

Down here, said Creighton and they turned into it.

A hundred yards down this one and another corridor intersected. Creighton turned right again.

Halfway down, they found a door. The sign read, Control Room.

Creighton tried it. It was open.

They walked in.

It was a control room for the hall. That hall was an assembly area for the station.

The room was dark inside though the emergencies were on in there too. But they could see view-screens and switches for the lights and there were systems controls and environmental for the hall. And in front they could see a large glass window that stretched the whole length of the room.

It stared out on the hall.

The hall itself was dark but the emergency lights allowed them to see somewhat. They could see the huddle of people down in front near the entrance though they could see nothing in detail.

There was a door to their right. It opened out onto a landing in the back of the hall. Below that were stairs. They took them down and into the hall.

The smell of death again. It was thick.

Whew! said one of the men. They covered their noses.

Creighton shuddered. He looked at the other men to see if they had noticed. He was ashamed of it but he couldn’t help it.

Bio-masks, he said and pulled his down from his helmet. The other men did the same.

They walked down the middle aisle toward the front. Though they could not see it, they could hear the probe buzzing overhead.

They came up to where the people were massed. So many people pushed up and piled in.

They got to within a few feet.

The people stood there stiff but Creighton could see now that they were distorted into a number of shapes that made them look inhuman. From what they could see in the light of their torches, their faces were contorted also, stretched out in great anguish and horror.

There was something dark gathered below then. It looked like a black puddle, a black puddle that shined in their torch lights.

Blood, said Creighton.

The people stood there unmoved and immovable, frozen in the attitude of their death, contorted in all manner of positions and shapes. They were grotesque statues, grotesque and inhuman statues, crammed in against the doorway. They were a tangled and piled up mass of what had been humanity that looked for all intents and purposes now like some freeform memorial to an awful holocaust.

These had been humans, once living, breathing humanity, but they were now lifeless and the horror and anguish of their moment of death was carved on their faces.

The people of the station.

What happened to them, Sarge? asked Shell.

I have no idea, said Creighton. It was the worst thing he had ever seen. What could have caused it was beyond him.

Doctor, he said into his headset, we’ll need you here.

What does this look like to you? asked Creighton. He was asking a woman near him. Her name was Smart and she was not in uniform; she was government. The medical corps of the Security Forces were government not career security.

I don’t understand it, she said. "It looks as if the mass of them tried to get around, over or under each other to get out.

"Look how badly some of them are contorted. Impossibly out of shape. What would cause that, I don’t know.

And the faces.

Creighton looked but he knew what was there. He had already seen it.

Look at the horror on the faces.

Horror was there and shock and surprise mixed in too. But that was all set over against great pain and anguish. It was there in the faces.

They look like they’ve been tortured, said Creighton.

The doctor nodded.

And look down there, below, on the floor.

She pointed to the blood pooled underneath them. It was now a congealed mass.

There were stains on the tunics, large stains. That blood on the deck looked like it had soaked through and pooled on the floor below.

You think it’s trauma? asked Creighton.

Maybe. It looks like they bled through the fabric—probably from wounds underneath. But I won’t know until I can examine them.

So it looks like they were tortured and then allowed to make for the exit. said Creighton. Doesn’t make any sense.

"I’ll have to examine them. They’ll have to be untangled and taken where I can examine them.

Over there. She pointed to an open area off to their right, a place where there were no seats. It was a widening of the aisle to allow people access to the doors.

I’ll need a table.

A table was found and set up. A couple of the bodies were untangled from the mass, carried over and placed on the table.

They lay there on top as they had when they stood, stiff, contorted, statue-like.

The doctor began examining them.

Shock and anguish—deep and severe pain. What could cause that? wondered Creighton.

Some disease?

He went over to the doctor.

You think it might be sickness of some type, a disease? he asked.

Could be, but that can’t be known definitively without tests. But it’s possible. My problem is what would cause them to exsanguinate like they did. That’s a puzzle.

Wounds?

There’s none on this one, she said pointing down to the first body. Maybe some of the others have it but this one doesn’t.

She moved to the second one and began checking it.

"Some tropical infections from Earth cause internal bleeding, massive internal bleeding, but that would be interior, internal. They only bleed internally when infected by those; no exsanguination.

I guess you can never know, though. The galaxy is a big place, even what comparatively little of it has been explored by us in the last fifty years. And we don’t find it all goodness and light when it comes to diseases. There are others out there, some strange ones. So it could be a new one brought in from some other world.

She pulled the tunic back over the one she was examining.

No trauma on this one either.

She went over to the mass of bodies and began examining them where they stood.

Creighton realized something then. He hadn’t noticed it before, but all he could see was men. There wasn’t a woman among them that he could see.

There had been women on the station and there were children too. The station was an official posting but family was allowed.

But there were no children in the tangle either.

Where were the women and children?

Anybody see any women? Creighton asked the men near him. He had ordered more of them to the assembly hall and they were helping the doctor.

Not one of them had.

Any children?

No.

Shell, said Creighton, you take two men and search the rest of the hall. There’re some doors across the way. Take a look and see what you can find.

Alright, said Shell and pointed to two others. You’re with me. They went off across the hall.

Creighton went back to the doctor.

No trauma on any of these either, she said turning to him. "Looks like they bled out from their pores.

That’s a new one for me.

Sarge!.

It was Shell. Creighton turned and saw him waving from a door across the hall.

Over here!

Creighton ran over to where he stood.

Shell’s face was white. The others were bent over. One of them was vomiting.

In there. He motioned to the open door.

Creighton walked in.

It was dark inside so he had to use his torch.

There was nothing he could see in the light of his torch except for more seats. Up front was some kind of platform—a stage, possibly. Maybe this was some kind of theater.

He flashed his torch around the room. He saw nothing. On another pass, he happened to flick the torch up. When he did, he caught sight of something in the beam as it passed.

Creighton came back to it and immediately knew what it was.

It was feet dangling down into the light.

Creighton pointed the torch upward. When he did, he groaned.

There they were. The women. And the children.

Oh Lord have mercy! he said.

The women and the children. They were there but they were not there the same way the men were. These women and these children were not crowding around any entranceway to get out but were there, up there, overhead, gathered near the ceiling.

They hung in rows, all the women, all the children; precise geometric rows. They hung there perfectly still suspended from the ceiling like a multitude of marionettes put away in storage after what must have been some ghastly production from the summer run.

But these didn’t hang by their hands or by their feet by any string which could give them motion or life. These women and these children hung there above by a cord tied around their necks.

They were dead. From the position of their heads that was very clear.

All of them dead.

The children dead!

Creighton felt like falling to his knees. He didn’t but his heart sank into the pit of his stomach.

It was hideous. Each of them up there stared out blankly from heads cambered at an unnatural angle. But they had been human, each of them, once. They had had potential--especially the children--that had been throttled out of them. Their hopes and their dreams, a life of great promise spread out before them, a future of potential joys and happiness, of small satisfactions that come from accomplishment and anticipation.

But no more. All of that had been crushed and strangled out of them.

Those children; those innocent children!

There was something they had in common with the men out in the hall, though. Creighton could see it below them; a large dark patch on the floor underneath.

Blood. It had to be blood. Just like the men out there.

Creighton took it all in. He saw it all and it stunned him and made him sick. Maybe the men, for some reason—maybe them. Possibly the women, though he wouldn’t know why them.

But the children? Why the children? Why would they do this to the children?

And it was clear someone had to have done it. This wasn’t any disease. From the looks of it it had to have been a number of them. How it was done was another matter and unknown, but that they had been killed was now very clear.

Why the children?

Creighton thought of his own back at the base and a shudder went through him again. He wanted to see them, to make sure they were alright.

They were far away from there, safe and secure at the base. Suddenly, he felt guilty about that.

The lights came up as he stood there.

I got ‘em up and running, said Palmer in Creighton’s headset.

Good work.

The light didn’t help. It made it much worse.

Creighton avoided looking up. But his attention was suddenly drawn to the wall.

The back wall.

On it was a message. Written in large, dripping letters, it read:

Tell Him Volloq is coming.

I am legion.

A message written in blood.

What does it mean? asked Shell. He was behind him. He looked better; he had recovered enough to come in but his eyes avoided looking up.

I don’t know, said Creighton. But the name Volloq was familiar to him. He had an impression he had heard it before.

And legion, that meant many. There were many of them?

He spoke into his headset. "Any of you found anyone alive? Looks like we have some perpetrators.

You find anyone or anything around that might be them?

No.

Nothing.

No one.

Can’t find anyone or anything.

Sarge, said another voice over his comm. This is Bunt. We’re near Corridor D. There’s an escape pod missing.

Escaped? Could they have escaped?

Everyone keep their eyes open. These people were killed. Whoever did this is dangerous and might, I repeat, might still be on board. So use extreme caution.

Creighton walked out of the room into the hall. He called to the doctor.

We’ll need you over here, he said.

The doctor came across and, passing Creighton, walked into the room.

Volloq. Why was that name familiar? It rang a bell. Creighton thought about it for a moment and then pulled up his commpad.

Volloq. Volloq. It’s familiar.

Who would do such a thing? asked a trooper near him. It was Tyml, the one who had vomited. He was shaking his head.

"Why would they do such a thing?

How could they have done this?

I don’t know, said Creighton. But whoever they were, it looks like ‘Volloq’ has something to do with it.

And then it hit him. Suddenly, it hit him.

Volloq! Volloq!

It’s him!

He remembered who it was; he remembered. And his face went white.

It’s not a ‘they,’ he said. "It’s a ‘him.’

Volloq is a him!

One man did all this? asked Tyml surprised. How is that possible?

Not a man, said Creighton, a beast, a monster--a terror.

"Get command on the line. They have to know.

We’ve got trouble.

-----

Chapter 2

Why is this Classified sitting here in this courtroom? said the man standing at the lectern. That lectern was in front of the jury box and that jury box was in a courtroom.

It was a standard courtroom though ornate for what was then the rule in courtrooms around the Confederation. The difference in this one was that there were no windows. There were no windows because that courtroom, the building it was in and the whole city where it was located was carved out of the bedrock that lay beneath the surface of the moon.

Luna. Earth’s satellite.

The man speaking was human and of above average height—just over six feet. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark and he had a pleasant face though handsome might not have been someone’s first description.

It was a rugged face, a face that looked like it had experience. That was fine with the man who owned it. Ruggedly handsome was what his wife would say and did say. Whatever it was, though, it was a face that looked like it had lived. And in it’s life had seen more than its share of the worst the known galaxy had come up with and still ended up with some humor in its lines.

The man looked fit and he was. The gravity on the moon was only a fifth of what it was back on Earth but the a-gravs at Scoresby City kept it close to earth levels. Below but close. That made exercise possible but it did take some of the fun out of it. That kind of fun was now only available in the nat-grav halls.

Why is this Classified sitting here in this courtroom today, members of the jury? repeated the man. "He is here because he has committed a crime. Not an ordinary crime. He isn’t here for petty theft, for stealing someone’s personal. And he isn’t here for violating trade regulations or for smuggling contraband, though we will see that something like this led him to commit this most heinous of acts.

"It was no small infraction or regulatory violation that this Classified sitting here is guilty of.

"No, he is guilty of an act that goes against the very basis of civilization, an act that is considered to be a crime wherever we have gone in the known galaxy; an act the illegality of which—the immorality of which-- is not questioned by anyone not bent on committing it for himself.

"It is a crime that has a long history behind it but it is a crime no civilization can let go unpunished and still call itself one. To punish for it, to make sure it is deterred, to protect citizens from it, is at the very foundation of the compact that underlies civil society.

"This Classified, sitting here before you, ladies, gentlemen and indeterminates, has committed the crime of murder.

"We will show that the defendant, this Classified named Br’t Br’k, was in a partnership with the victim, Tylos Phinindi. They were partners in a scheme to make money from the sale of a shipment of lethals that had been taken from a security depot on Earth.

"That shipment was to be transported here to Scoresby City and then sold to the highest bidder.

"But there was a falling out between them. It has been said that there is no honor among thieves and there wasn’t any here. Mr. Phinindi wanted a bigger share of the profits from the sale and looked to cut Br’t Br’k out of the deal.

"But the defendant would have none of it.

"So, on the day in question, the fifth period of the Fourth cycle, when they were both at their jobs in the Littleton Ore Processor, the jobs that made them legal here at Scoresby, Br’t Br’k killed his partner.

"The prosecution will show that on that day, the defendant took a Kraxel torch to a plasma vent and cut the metal in such a way that the flow would not channel out but would burst into the work area, the work area that the victim, his partner in crime, was in.

"And that is what happened. Tylos Phinindi was at work at his station and when he went to vent the plasma, he was hit by a burst of it through the cut vent. When they got to him, there was little left of him.

"This is what we will show, ladies, gentlemen and indeterminates of the jury. That is our responsibility and I expect you to hold us to it. We will show that the defendant committed this crime, this heinous act of murder.

"We will show that he is guilty.

Thank you.

And the man sat down.

Thank you, Mr. Sampers, said the judge sitting on the bench. Your opening statement, Mr. Callum?

The attorney for the defendant stood up.

Before I make my opening statement, your honor, I have a motion to make.

The judge sat forward to listen.

I move that the case be dismissed against the defendant, my client, because he is not human.

That created a stir in the courtroom. A couple of those in the gallery went out the door. Some of the jury looked surprised. It was easy to tell that the defendant was not human. Though he walked on two legs and had two arms, two eyes, two ears and a mouth, they were all wrong for him to be human. That was absolutely clear.

So why was this an issue?

I object, said the prosecutor, Mr. Sampers, with some emotion as he rose from the prosecutor’s table.

That issue has been addressed, your honor, if not directly then by implication in some of the pre-trial motions. That has been settled and now counsel wants to bring it up in trial for the jury to hear.

Approach the bench, said the judge.

The two attorneys crossed the pit and came over to the side of the bench.

That was addressed in several motions, Mr. Callum, said the judge, and I recollect having denied them. You do remember that, I trust?

"I was just giving your honor a chance to revisit those rulings. This issue is fundamental to the process here. It is a matter of fairness, one of the two pillars of the Great Reformation and the Second Founding.

"It is fundamentally unfair to subject this creature-- even though he has been and is Classified—it is fundamentally unfair to subject him to procedures and processes set up for humans, for human sensibilities, for human purposes.

"Those purposes are, in the end-- or at least should be-- to make conduct conform to what is accepted, to what is legal. But what is legal here has been set by humans for humans. They, by virtue of their being human, are able to conform their conduct to what is required of them by their peers, by their fellow humans.

"That is the basic premise of the legal and correctional systems; to get humans to conform their conduct to what is legal, or moral, as the formulation has become since the Great Reformation. As one of the chief proponents at the time said, what is at stake in the rule of law is our ability to use it as an instrument of human redemption.

"Note that what he said was human redemption.

"But this Classified is not human, your honor. He’s Powlgette. They have a different culture, a different orientation, a different worldview than humans do. His culture, his way of life, his perceptions of the world are incommensurate with ours as human beings.

"It is not clear that he would see human conduct as anything but ‘other’ to him, outside of him, foreign—if he could see it at all. And that goes to not only his ability to conform himself to what is a human standard, but to whether he can even understand what that standard is and, more importantly, why it is there. And it goes to an intent, the mens rea, his guilty mind, which is the basis of any criminal finding of guilt.

To subject him to a prosecution based on human laws is simply unfair. And I would submit, your honor, that it does not serve justice either, that other pillar of the Great Reformation.

The judge looked over at the prosecutor.

Mr. Sampers? he said.

Judge, said Sampers, "every sentient being that we come upon as we move out into the galaxy is subject to being classified by representatives of the Confederation when their society or civilization has determined it wishes to deal with us. They are subject to a battery of tests, one of which is a standard intelligence test.

"This Classified tested well within the range of what is needed to function in Confederation society. It wasn’t high but it doesn’t need to be. He comes up well within the relevant regulations established for just such purposes.

So he is able to understand the rules; he is able to understand what the law is.

But he may not be able to conform himself to the law, said Callum. "That has always been a significant matter for a fair trial. Is he capable of conforming himself to the law? If he isn’t, then the purposes of trial and of punishment are not served.

And that isn’t simply a matter of intelligence.

It’s not? Then what is it a matter of? asked Sampers.

The issue I am raising, said Callum, is whether for the purposes of crime and punishment, for the purposes of justice and fairness, we can expect some being alien to our own culture and institutions to be able to fully function according to our laws. It’s a legitimate enquiry. My point is that it is fundamentally unfair to require them to.

Okay, said Sampers, "if that is the argument then let me put it this way. He comes here to work and does not know or cannot understand the laws or conform his conduct to it? Then he is prosecuted for violating the law and his punishment will be a deterrence to others like him who want to come here and work. And a deterrence to him, especially; he won’t do it again.

"He is intelligent enough to understand that, at least. It’s like putting his hand in a fire. He will find that it burns and won’t do it again. And others will be warned; they will see that it is not in their interests to violate the requirements of the law here or they’ll get burned too.

That serves the purposes of the criminal law.

But he is being subject to human rules, to human requirements. What is fair in that?

Then he should stay away; he shouldn’t come here among us.

That means the promise of the Great Reformation is just an empty one to those who come here and participate in it with us.

Sampers looked over at counsel. Are you saying it would be more fair to subject this Classified to the Pow’lgette system of justice? Is that what you’re saying?

To Pow’lgette standards, yes.

But Pow’lgette standards create Pow’lgette processes, counsel. So try him according to Pow’lgette standards and processes then? That would be fair?

Yes, that would fair.

Alright, said Sampers with a smile. He had done his homework; it looked like Callum hadn’t. "The Pow’lgetteans use the le’at new’k cofr’dt pow’glten. It’s a device they came up with over a long period of time. They did it with a lot of deliberation; it wasn’t something they rushed into in a day. And they consider it to be central to their system of justice.

"It’s a mechanical form of trial by ordeal. They insert the accused in one end and he slides down a chute where he is subjected to, let us say, certain processes, as he makes his way along. If he comes out the other end of it alive, that is, if he survives these processes, then he is innocent. If he doesn’t, then he’s guilty.

"There haven’t been all that many survive it. As a matter of fact, there have been none, counselor.

Is that what counsel is advocating on behalf of his client?

I am advocating for fairness, a fairness guaranteed anyone within the territories that make up the Confederation. This is a fairness that was much more than a slogan or part of a catchy phrase from an advertising campaign during the Great Reformation—it was and continues to be a great moral principle.

But that fairness, your honor, said Sampers, "was a measure of fairness set up by humans according to human standards. And now counsel wishes to use that human standard of fairness to judge the fairness of the proceedings against this defendant.

"He cannot have it both ways, your honor. He wants his client to be judged by human standards of fairness but not by human standards of appropriate—legal—conduct.

He can’t have it both ways.

Callum said nothing more. It had been his best shot and it didn’t take. Callum had a reputation for being aggressive but this showed he hadn’t done his homework. He had slipped up. The Guild Council would not be pleased. He wasted judicial time with this one and it would show up on his efficiency report. That was always bad.

This one is settled, Mr. Callum, said the judge. "I won’t revisit it.

"If this was a motion for me to rule directly on the issue, then it is denied. But do not waste my time on this anymore, counsel.

"And if you persist, Mr. Callum, then you can address me in a hearing for contempt.

"Your very own, personal hearing.

And I will file a report with the Guild Council. Do I make myself clear?

Mr. Callum nodded his head. That he wasn’t pleased registered on his face. But he acquiesced—there wasn’t much else he could do.

Let’s move on, said the judge.

Sampers may have been a brother member of the Juridical Guild with Callum, but he didn’t like him. Though he was on the defense side of the Guild and his duty was to defend criminals, he seemed to Sampers to like it too much. There had been some complaints about this to the Council but nothing had come of it—Callum was too tied in with some of the higher, more august members for it to make any difference.

But that could change. Those relationships weren’t fixed. They depended a lot on politics so they weren’t all that stable. And wasting judicial resources was a particularly egregious offense.

Both lawyers crossed the pit again and went back to their tables. As he sat down, Sampers looked over at the jury and smiled.

That jury was composed of men, women and indeterminates. They were of the races Human, Limpet, Colele and Prumbak. There were other races at Scoresby City—the city itself numbered close to a million Classifieds-- but these were the ones who had been selected for the trial from the pool.

The Limpets, Coleles and some of the humans, smiled back at Sampers. The Prumbaks sat there stoic which was the way they normally were. They were always reserved, even distant.

The other humans on the jury who did not smile were just contrary sorts. That was fine with Sampers; that might make them prone to convict.

Anything else, Mr. Callum? asked the judge looking down at him with his eyes narrow. That was a clue.

Nothing, your honor.

"Then you may begin your opening statement.

"Thank you, your honor.

"Ladies, gentlemen and indeterminates. Don’t let any of this fool you. My client, the Powlgetten sitting at this table, is here to respond to the accusations that have been made by the government against him. The fact that he is sitting here means nothing more than that. It doesn’t mean he is guilty. To find my client guilty there must