3
Doctor Mallard stood in chains before the Grand Space Marine Court.
His head was bowed, not in shame, for he felt no shame. What he had done was the best he could have done in the situation. How could he have known that his equipment was faulty? It was a simple mistake, and no fault of his own. He had absolute faith in his innocence and his good standing in the eyes of the gods and goddesses of healing. Instead, he felt only fear and apprehension. What was to become of him? He knew there was no justice in this mockery of a trial. The Emperor was a dictator, and his courts were the hands of tyranny. The penalty was going to be severe. He knew that. All he could do was pray that it would be moderately severe, as opposed to inhumanly sadistic. He guessed he would probably recieve a ridiculously long prison sentence or some kind of humiliating permanent exile; something he could just about live with. Admittedly, he wasn't a judge, and didn't have much of an imagination.
The splendour of the massive court room was breathtaking. Domed in shape, the chamber extended vertically further than Mallard could possibly see. Rows and rows of huge steps extended backwards, enough for an entire Chapter and their dogs to find a place to stand and still leave room for a small army to walk down the intricately enamelled aisle in the center. Tapestries that were tens of thousands of years old hung from the titanium walls, ritual justice banners of every Chapter and the Emperor's own personal depiction of a golden knight holding aloft a set of scales and a shining sword. Amplifying equipment that would make Quack and his dreadnought blush with envy lurked in the background so that the final decision of the judge could be heard by all. On either side of Mallard, grim-faced men in veteran Marine armour held their swords to the ground in a ceremonial position, focussed and unmoving as statues. He knew that these were some of the elite of the Emperor's army, men that most would never dream of setting eyes on. Behind them stood beaurocratic officials and officers of the Emperor's law. In the distance, Mallard spotted a gang of Techmarines, engaged in some kind of specialist technical discussion. Their faces were somber, and every so often they saluted the machine god. In front of Mallard, a massive podium loomed over him, a sword carved into its incomprehensibly ancient wooden panels. The judge stood before this podium, presumably stood on a raised platform. He ran his hands over a page in the Liber Legale, the sacred Book of Law that only the most esteemed servants of the Emperor were ever allowed to touch. He observed Mallard expressionlessly and spoke.
"Doctor Mallard Wei§zauber. You are stood here today to answer to the charge of murdering a senior officer in cold blood and almost causing an important battle to be lost. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty."
"Do you realise the seriousness of this offence? We have evidence from a wide number of witnesses that you were seen killing General Naturzwanzig †bermunchkin during the battle. Marine Thaco Johnsson, if you would care to explain what happened in your own words."
"He was stood over the General with a clinical hole punch to his head. He pressed the trigger."
"Your honour, that is not murder. That is negative restoration. Negative restoration is legal on the battlefield." replied Mallard calmly.
"Legal, when the person is near death. General †bermunchkin was perfectly healthy before he was slain." corrected the judge.
"I realise this, your honour, but you must understand that my HP Meter broke. I thought his HP was 4, when in actual fact it was 400. Under the circumstances it was not me who was to blame, but my faulty equipment."
"Then you say your technician is to blame?"
"No!" Mallard shook his head profusely; he had vowed not to get his friends into trouble. "Our technician ran thorough checks before going into battle! We can give records if you don't believe me."
"An unexplained mechanical fault, then."
Mallard nodded.
"Marine Thaco, do you remember Mallard asking General †bermunchkin for his consent before negatively restoring him?"
"He did, but..."
"One question at a time. So, you asked the General for his consent. What did he reply?"
"Yes, your honour, but..."
"The medic asked the General for his consent to be negatively restored, and then the General said yes, so the medic negatively restored him. Ordinary practice on a battlefield."
"But, your honour, General †bermunchkin was in a state of emotional shock. A platoon of neutral medics landed in the middle of the battlefield, starting firing on both sides and a tree almost landed on him. Then a medic appeared from nowhere and offered to kill him for no reason! I saw the look on his face... he was terrified out of his mind!"
"Mallard. Did General †bermunchkin appear capable of making the decision you asked him to make?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist, your honour. I can't judge someone's mental condition just by looking at them."
"Very well. This is obviously not a case of premeditated murder, but a rash mistake on the spur of the moment. However, the fact still remains that a competent General of the Flying Toaster Chapter is dead, a potential victory was ruined that night, and you are a thoroughly incompetent medic. You are a danger to society. Therefore, we have no choice but to peripherate you permanently to a machine."
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?" Doctor Mallard almost fainted from sheer horror. This was worse than anything he had imagined. He would be surgically hard-wired to some metal box somewhere, never to see the light of day, breathe fresh air, even be human, for the rest of his life. The life-support systems were efficient enough to keep him alive indefinitely- he should know, he designed them himself. And this was only the lenient version!
"However, because this is a reduced sentence, certain amendments have been made. You may choose the machine yourself."
"Cool. Can I have a..."
Doctor Mallard stood in chains before the Grand Space Marine Court.
His head was bowed, not in shame, for he felt no shame. What he had done was the best he could have done in the situation. How could he have known that his equipment was faulty? It was a simple mistake, and no fault of his own. He had absolute faith in his innocence and his good standing in the eyes of the gods and goddesses of healing. Instead, he felt only fear and apprehension. What was to become of him? He knew there was no justice in this mockery of a trial. The Emperor was a dictator, and his courts were the hands of tyranny. The penalty was going to be severe. He knew that. All he could do was pray that it would be moderately severe, as opposed to inhumanly sadistic. He guessed he would probably recieve a ridiculously long prison sentence or some kind of humiliating permanent exile; something he could just about live with. Admittedly, he wasn't a judge, and didn't have much of an imagination.
The splendour of the massive court room was breathtaking. Domed in shape, the chamber extended vertically further than Mallard could possibly see. Rows and rows of huge steps extended backwards, enough for an entire Chapter and their dogs to find a place to stand and still leave room for a small army to walk down the intricately enamelled aisle in the center. Tapestries that were tens of thousands of years old hung from the titanium walls, ritual justice banners of every Chapter and the Emperor's own personal depiction of a golden knight holding aloft a set of scales and a shining sword. Amplifying equipment that would make Quack and his dreadnought blush with envy lurked in the background so that the final decision of the judge could be heard by all. On either side of Mallard, grim-faced men in veteran Marine armour held their swords to the ground in a ceremonial position, focussed and unmoving as statues. He knew that these were some of the elite of the Emperor's army, men that most would never dream of setting eyes on. Behind them stood beaurocratic officials and officers of the Emperor's law. In the distance, Mallard spotted a gang of Techmarines, engaged in some kind of specialist technical discussion. Their faces were somber, and every so often they saluted the machine god. In front of Mallard, a massive podium loomed over him, a sword carved into its incomprehensibly ancient wooden panels. The judge stood before this podium, presumably stood on a raised platform. He ran his hands over a page in the Liber Legale, the sacred Book of Law that only the most esteemed servants of the Emperor were ever allowed to touch. He observed Mallard expressionlessly and spoke.
"Doctor Mallard Wei§zauber. You are stood here today to answer to the charge of murdering a senior officer in cold blood and almost causing an important battle to be lost. How do you plead?"
"Not guilty."
"Do you realise the seriousness of this offence? We have evidence from a wide number of witnesses that you were seen killing General Naturzwanzig †bermunchkin during the battle. Marine Thaco Johnsson, if you would care to explain what happened in your own words."
"He was stood over the General with a clinical hole punch to his head. He pressed the trigger."
"Your honour, that is not murder. That is negative restoration. Negative restoration is legal on the battlefield." replied Mallard calmly.
"Legal, when the person is near death. General †bermunchkin was perfectly healthy before he was slain." corrected the judge.
"I realise this, your honour, but you must understand that my HP Meter broke. I thought his HP was 4, when in actual fact it was 400. Under the circumstances it was not me who was to blame, but my faulty equipment."
"Then you say your technician is to blame?"
"No!" Mallard shook his head profusely; he had vowed not to get his friends into trouble. "Our technician ran thorough checks before going into battle! We can give records if you don't believe me."
"An unexplained mechanical fault, then."
Mallard nodded.
"Marine Thaco, do you remember Mallard asking General †bermunchkin for his consent before negatively restoring him?"
"He did, but..."
"One question at a time. So, you asked the General for his consent. What did he reply?"
"Yes, your honour, but..."
"The medic asked the General for his consent to be negatively restored, and then the General said yes, so the medic negatively restored him. Ordinary practice on a battlefield."
"But, your honour, General †bermunchkin was in a state of emotional shock. A platoon of neutral medics landed in the middle of the battlefield, starting firing on both sides and a tree almost landed on him. Then a medic appeared from nowhere and offered to kill him for no reason! I saw the look on his face... he was terrified out of his mind!"
"Mallard. Did General †bermunchkin appear capable of making the decision you asked him to make?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist, your honour. I can't judge someone's mental condition just by looking at them."
"Very well. This is obviously not a case of premeditated murder, but a rash mistake on the spur of the moment. However, the fact still remains that a competent General of the Flying Toaster Chapter is dead, a potential victory was ruined that night, and you are a thoroughly incompetent medic. You are a danger to society. Therefore, we have no choice but to peripherate you permanently to a machine."
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?" Doctor Mallard almost fainted from sheer horror. This was worse than anything he had imagined. He would be surgically hard-wired to some metal box somewhere, never to see the light of day, breathe fresh air, even be human, for the rest of his life. The life-support systems were efficient enough to keep him alive indefinitely- he should know, he designed them himself. And this was only the lenient version!
"However, because this is a reduced sentence, certain amendments have been made. You may choose the machine yourself."
"Cool. Can I have a..."