The summons arrived without warning, in the middle of Jorge Pimentel’s breakfast. One second he was buttering toast; the next, the air above the table unzipped and spilled a legal notice directly into his coffee.
You have been selected for Interplanetary Jury Service.
Attendance is compulsory.
Bring your own oxygen if incompatible with station air.
Any refusal will result in the forfeiture of your breathable atmosphere.
He stared at it for a moment, thinking it might be one of those pranks Ramón used to pull—like the time he mailed Jorge a letter from “The Ministry of Socks” demanding the return of all socks containing more than 40% polyester.
But no, this one had the aftertaste of authority.
The waiting room was an architectural misdemeanor. Chairs bolted to the ceiling for drip-dwelling species, walls that bent inwards just enough to make you feel like the room was trying to close its fist around you, and a vending machine labelled simply “Miscellaneous” (sold out).
The other jurors were a study in impossible biology:
- Pthp, a sentient fluctuation in humidity who occasionally rained on itself.
- Grup-11, a chrome echidna with 120 terabytes of memory, who insisted it could forget at will.
- Velka, a giant novelty rubber chicken with telepathic contempt.
- Associate Life-Cluster, Third Revision, a pudding-shaped collective with the moral flexibility of a tax inspector.
The charge: The Galaxy vs. Ramón Pimentel.
The crime: Willfully inserting unauthorized constellations into the night sky without a permit.
Which sounded silly—until the prosecutor, a tall fungus in an expensive suit, described the damage:
- Civilizations plunged into chaos when The Levitating Sardine replaced The Noble Furnace.
- The asteroid kingdoms of Kol and Bri broke their engagement after The Subpoena appeared mid-ceremony.
- On Lirby 9, the entire fiscal quarter collapsed due to a stapler shortage caused by the hasty reprinting of astrology calendars.
The defense—three thousand butterflies—argued “cosmic free speech” while pirouetting around the courtroom. The judge, a cubic meter of obsidian with one blinking green light, interrupted often to ask, “If stars are dots, can a dot commit treason?”
Halfway through, Jorge understood: this wasn’t about Ramón.
This was about control—who could place anything in the galaxy’s shared darkness without permission.
Ramón’s Sardine was a crime only because it wasn’t pre-approved.
Velka’s voice pierced his thoughts:
Don’t think too hard, monkey. They can smell it.
The jury’s “neutral” deliberation chamber was a laundromat floating in zero gravity. (Neutral because no one likes laundromats enough to defend them in court.) Lint drifted in the air like the powdered remains of forgotten arguments.
Votes were cast:
- Pthp: “Guilty, but charming.”
- Grup-11: “Not guilty. Also, I am now forgetting this moment.”
- Velka: a telepathic sneer sharp enough to slice bread.
- The tapioca cluster: “Guilty, with artistic probation—only approved constellations, like The Harmless Tulip or The President’s Elbow.”
When Jorge opened his mouth, something else spoke through him:
“The human votes guilty.”
It was his voice, but not his will.
The verdict, delivered in a frequency that made his teeth itch:
“Guilty, but inspiring. Sentence: Three cycles as Official Court Illustrator, producing only beauty approved by those incapable of it.”
Everyone applauded. (Well, the fungus clapped, the butterflies flapped, Pthp rained politely. Velka stared at Jorge like he was an especially stupid planet.)
On the shuttle home, Jorge saw it—the faint, flickering Levitating Sardine, still stubbornly swimming in the dark.
He thought: Maybe it’s not art until it’s illegal.
In his pocket, the summons twitched. Twice.
A rehearsal, perhaps, for his next civic duty—or for his own trial.
My Other Car is a Robot 
Leave a comment