The verdict came quicker than Bobby expected. He’d half-imagined the jury would deliberate for hours, maybe overnight, emerging with carefully considered nuance.
Forty-seven minutes after they filed out, they filed back in.
Everyone rose. Everyone sat. The judge looked solemn. The drones buzzed.
“Has the tribunal reached a verdict?” Kaufman asked.
“We have,” said the foreperson—a woman in her thirties with a calm voice and worry lines already etching themselves between her brows.
“On the charge of Digital Hate Speech inheritance, how do you find?”
“Responsible,” she said.
“On the charge of Microaggression Accumulation inheritance?”
“Responsible.”
“On the charge of Toxic Cultural Contribution inheritance?”
“Responsible.”
Each word landed like a brick. Bobby felt them stack up inside him, heavy and permanent.
“Sentencing,” Judge Kaufman said, turning to his screens. Numbers scrolled. Algorithms hummed. Somewhere in the data-center depths, guilty and not-guilty were turned into months and years and terms and conditions.
“Mr. Garrett,” Kaufman said at last, “you have been found responsible on all counts. Taking into account the severity of your ancestor’s contributions, the duration of his harmful activity, your generational distance, and your demeanor during these proceedings, this tribunal sentences you to nine years of corrective rehabilitation in a designated Re‑Education Facility.”
Nine years. The number ripped through Bobby like a cold wind.
“In addition,” Kaufman continued, “you will serve fifteen years of social probation following your release, during which your citizen activities will be monitored for regressive tendencies. A permanent note of ancestral harm will be attached to your record.”
He paused.
“It is the hope of this tribunal,” he said, “that through this process, you will gain a deeper understanding of the harm in your lineage and your role in repairing it.”
He looked genuinely earnest. Like a grandfather explaining why he was taking away your matches for your own good.
“Do you understand the sentence?” he asked.
Bobby’s mouth was dry. “Yeah,” he said. “I understand.”
He understood that by the time he got out, he’d be fifty-one. That Lena would be in her late twenties, if the system didn’t eat her first. That jobs would be even harder to get with a corrective record attached to his name.
He understood that there was nothing he could say here that would matter.
“Then this tribunal is adjourned,” Kaufman said.
The gavel fell.
As the automatons moved in—gently, politely, handcuffs light on his wrists—Bobby glanced toward the gallery. Crowds were already standing, talking, checking their feeds. Some faces reflected satisfaction, others unease.
Near the back, he saw an older man, maybe sixty, with thin hair and a crumpled suit. The man’s eyes were wet. As Bobby was led past, their gazes met.
The man mouthed something. Two words.
I’m sorry.
Bobby knew he wasn’t apologizing for the verdict. The man was apologizing for being there. For watching. For being part of the audience that made this whole thing possible.
Bobby nodded. It was all he could do.
The automatons guided him down a side corridor, away from the cameras. The hum of the courtroom faded. The sounds of the Processing Center rose in its place—doors, voices, the low mechanical sighs of a system doing exactly what it was built to do.
“You have the right to appeal,” one of the robots said.
“Yeah,” Bobby said. “Let me know how that goes.”
“Appeals have a 4.1% success rate in cases of this class,” the robot offered helpfully.
“Better than 2.3,” Bobby muttered.
They reached a reinforced door. It slid open to reveal a small chamber with a bench and a screen.
“Please wait here for transport,” the robot said.
They removed his cuffs and left. The door snicked shut behind them.
Bobby sat. The screen flickered on automatically. His case summary appeared: name, offense categories, sentence. Underneath, a tidy timeline for his corrective program: intake, evaluation, re‑education modules, potential review checkpoints.
He stared at it without really seeing it.
The screen shifted. An ad popped up in the corner.
“Want to learn from history? Subscribe to GUILTY.IO+ for exclusive access to archival case files, interactive victim testimonies, and more!”
A smiling host appeared, gesturing at a menu of options.
“Join millions of engaged citizens who are turning ancestral harm into teachable moments,” she chirped. “With our premium subscription, you can deep-dive into landmark cases like the first Pandemic Denialism prosecutions, the Confederate Descendant Tribunals, and the newly announced Ripper Resolution hearings!”
Bobby barked out a laugh that startled even him.
They’d turned shame into content. Guilt into a streaming service.
“Monetize everything,” he said to the empty room. “Why not.”
He wondered if his own trial would be part of the package someday. If, years from now, some bored citizen would scroll past his face, click for a minute, shake their head, and say, “Wow, can you believe people used to think that was okay?” before moving on to the next episode.
The door opened. Two more automatons waited, their surfaces gleaming with institutional cleanliness.
“Robert James Garrett,” one said. “Your transport to Re‑Education Facility PA‑07 is ready.”
Bobby stood. His knees felt old.
“Let’s go learn,” he said.
They led him out, down corridors, through secure doors, into another egg‑smooth vehicle that smelled like new plastic and faintly of despair.
As the vehicle pulled away, the city receded, then disappeared. The road stretched ahead, empty and gray.
Bobby leaned back against the seat. Closed his eyes.
Somewhere far above, the drones that had watched him would be uploading their footage, editing clips, tagging them with keywords and sentiment. Somewhere far ahead, a facility waited, clean and bright and full of people being taught to hate themselves for things they’d never done.
He thought of his great-great-grandfather, fingers tapping on a cheap plastic keyboard, firing off jokes into the void.
He thought of Lena, staring at a screen with his face on it, being asked to choose between her father and her future.
He thought of the old line they used to put on posters in Sunday school classrooms: Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.
He wondered when they’d decided that if nobody was without sin, then everyone got to throw stones forever.
The vehicle hummed. The future rolled on.
And Bobby, for the first time since the knock at 6:47 AM, allowed himself to be afraid.
| <– Chapter 7 | Chapter 9 –> |