Book One - Chapter Nineteen: The Hot Dog on a Stick Defense or Guilty Until Proven Innocent

It was morning and the ship’s gentle purr drifted through the vents, like a soft woosh of breath.

The alarm at my bedside chimed with the sound of wind stirring glass beads.

Beyond the window pane, the stars twinkled, distant and unconcerned.

And I felt like complete and utter shit.

I got up and prepared for the council meeting like a man getting dressed for his own execution. That is, if executions involved wearing what looked like an ass-less prom tuxedo designed by someone who'd only ever had tuxedos described to them by a bunch of drunken toddlers. It was a black number with silver trim and a lot of gauze. It was the most formal looking thing I could find. And the ship’s computer insisted this was the closest match to traditional Council ceremony attire.

The mirror showed me what billions of people were depending on: a guy in a giant lobster bib with a limp, sporting a dozen or so bruises and a bandaged arm. My healing factor was working overtime, but even caffeine superpowers had their limits.

Billions, I reminded myself. Billions of people whose entire future depends on you not fucking this up.

I didn't exactly know how many were still alive, but I hoped it was still in the billions.

Somewhere down on Earth, my uncle Ted was still holed up in Kentucky with his wife and kids, a shotgun, and an AM radio transmitter. Last I'd checked on them, they were doing okay, given everything. He had always been convinced the government was hiding alien tech; chemtrails, fluoride mind numbing, black sites under Walmart. He had a bunker and enough guns and food to last several more years. He sounded crazy, back in the day, but damned if the bastard didn’t keep being right. One by one, his conspiracy theories stopped being crazy and started being documentaries. And now? Now, whole swaths of humanity were being vaporized or vivisected by aliens. Made me wonder about the black sites.

I considered choosing him as a delegate, but I couldn’t drag him into this mess and away from his wife and kids.

I didn’t have much family anymore. Or friends, really. Not real ones.

My parents died in a car crash three years ago, coming to pick me up from another temp job because I was too broke and pathetic to afford basic transportation. Just regular, boring, meaningless death. The kind that happened every day before the universe decided to personally fuck with us. They'd never see this cosmic circus. Never know their son had somehow become humanity's first, last, and worst hope, dressed like a space waiter in a male strip club.

The irony tasted like copper pennies and failure.

I checked with the ship computer. My “delegates” still weren’t on board. Aside from Ted; Peña and Riley were literally the only two Earth people I could trust, which was less a testament to their reliability and more an indictment of my absolutely tragic social life. Before the apocalypse, my emergency contacts were my first ex-girlfriend (who hated me), my boss (who was also an ex), and a pizza place that knew my order by heart but would definitely not bail me out of jail. Whatever happened to Nino’s anyway? I wondered if they made it through the apocalypse.

I could technically invite five delegates, but I had two. The manual had been fuzzy on whether all delegates had to be from Earth. It only said they had to be “duly appointed and legally allowed.” But what was “legally allowed” wasn’t covered in Volume 1.

What the hell was I supposed to do with five delegates? My master plan was basically “show up, smile nervously, and try to bluff my way through using obscure subclauses from a manual I barely understood.” The kind of brilliant legal strategy that had already gotten me fired more than once, and now I was somehow representing an entire planet with it.

I'd managed to extract a few potentially useful nuggets from the manual's thousand-plus-page labyrinth of bureaucratic horseshit. Clauses for actions considered uncivilized against civilized species. Protections for endangered and vulnerable vital races. I'd use everything I could, no matter how much it felt like begging.

Whipsteele was still nowhere to be found, which was either perfectly fine or the final nail in humanity's coffin. I'd hoped to call him as a character witness. Guy had spent a few hundred years on Earth, but was also an alien, so he might be seen as an unbiased voice on humanity’s value. Plus, I'd planned to shift some blame for this clusterfuck onto him if it would help. If none of that worked, maybe I could convince him to do some pirating. Pirates were supposed to work outside the system, right? If things went full shit, maybe I could convince him to help evacuate some people from Earth.

Well, I told my reflection, who looked about as convinced as I felt, time to go save the fucking world.

The walk to the delegation chamber felt like a death march scored by the universe's most depressing elevator music. Squeak and Meylin flanked me like fuzzy pallbearers, Squeak’s usual chatter replaced by the kind of silence that preceded very bad news or very awkward conversations.

“Any last bits of advice?” I asked, not expecting an answer.

Squeak looked at me with the kind of pity usually reserved for three-legged dogs in late-night commercials. The kind that made you want to donate money and also cry into your midnight bowl of cereal.

“It's okay, Squeak. Time to face the music.”

The Council chamber was built to intimidate, and it succeeded.

The space was massive, stadium-sized, with a glass dome ceiling that opened into the expanse. Above us, stars turned slowly, silent and distant, a jury that didn't care if humanity survived.

The chamber was arranged in concentric rings. There were five rows of seats, each level up fewer and more spread out. Each level contained delegates from different worlds, arranged by alliance and political affiliation in a cosmic seating chart.

But it was the screen that made my stomach drop. A massive black banner, no, a screen wrapped the entire chamber. It burst to life, revealing thousands upon thousands of beings watching from across the galaxy. An audience larger than every sports stadium on Earth combined, all tuned in to watch one human try to save his species from extinction.

Each Council Delegation had their hierarchy easy to see: one dominant chair in the top row, five subordinate ones a row down.

The Karens sat with firm postures, their expressions half pleasant, half scowl. Cassandra, High Empress, was twice human size, which was a considerable size down from before and told me that she could adjust her height. She wore completely white business formal, and her expression could have frozen the sun.

The Mewsari delegation was already in place. Their chief—a regal gray feline with piercing yellow eyes—sat upright on a floating cushion, posture flawless, expression unreadable. Below him lounged five other cats in plush, oversized chairs, including Whiskers, who shot me a glance that stopped just short of sympathy. No nod. No tail flick. Just polite silence.

Then came the Cerulians. Dozens of them. Identical. Not just similar... identical. Blue, human-shaped, suited in shimmering robes like spiritual accountants. There were dozens more, all with faces hidden under long hoods. For a moment I wondered if I was looking at clones. It was especially strange knowing Squeak and Meylin were also from Cerulia, but they were mice. These... weren’t. I didn’t know if it was a caste system, evolutionary split, or something else. Just added to the pile of questions no one had answered.

The Graventhalls were next—massive troll-like beings with stone skin and ceremonial armor. Their leader looked like a king forged from scrap metal, flanked by a female warrior and four towering males. Each of them looked like they could crush a car like an empty Capri-Sun.

And then… a race I’d never seen before. They looked uncannily familiar, like characters from those Saturday morning cartoons I used to watch with a bowl of cereal balanced on my knees.

Shark people. That’s the only way to describe them. They were literal bipedal sharks. Slate-gray skin, too-wide grins, and grey suits—half predator, half-person, all business. About nine feet tall, with broad shoulders.

Their leader sat at the very top of the semicircle, directly across from me and far above everyone in the room. He was still as a deep ocean and just as cold. Everyone else, every delegate and dignitary, curved downward from that center point like drops of water sliding off a blade.

He wasn’t fancy. No medals, no throne. Just quiet, brutal simplicity. Like a guillotine.

That’s the one who’ll destroy us, I thought.

Six chairs to the far right sat empty. A small plaque read: The Xarnathi Delegation. The little green goblin-like beings were nowhere to be found.

I stood alone on a raised platform surrounded by an oak railing, which was oddly traditional for a courtroom floating inside a chrome spaceship. It felt eerily like Earth law. Maybe Earth law had been influenced by this somewhere? Either way, the message was clear: this was theater. And I was just a character in the play.

The murmur of the crowd dimmed and the shark leader stood. Unfolded, really. Nine feet of apex predator in a muted brown suit.

I was mentally running through the plan. The only legal experience I had was trying, and failing, to keep my job at Hot Dog on a Stick. I got fired for what they called “creative dipping.” I’d been testing what else could be battered: Oreos, Twinkies, gummy worms. One shift, I skewered a few frozen fish sticks, dunked them in the corn dog batter, and forgot about them. That is, until a customer immediately puked onto the counter. Turned out it was still half-frozen inside.

I tried to explain to my manager. Quoted the handbook. Section 9: “We Love Employees Taking Initiative.” Told them it was a bold new fusion snack. Said we could make millions. They weren’t convinced. So, I begged and pleaded.

But I made them feel bad enough to not fire me on the spot. I even got a “commendation for initiative” right before the termination notice.

That’s the strategy now. Beg. Grovel. Point out the manual says it exists to promote intergalactic peace.

God, I really was a terrible choice for this.

“Civilized beings of the System,” the shark said, voice smooth and final. “Esteemed members of the Council. Peoples of the Allied Worlds.”

He raised a webbed hand. From the wide screen encircling the chamber, thousands of beings cheered from across the galaxy. The sound spiked with applause before being cut off. Theater, again.

“Thank you for your attendance in this grave matter and for your nomination as Council Chairman in these proceedings,” he said. “We are gathered to determine the disposition of assets currently belonging to Planet Earth.”

Assets. Not people. Not culture. Not future. Assets. This wasn’t a trial—it was an estate sale. Earth was already dead. They were just dividing the stuff.

“I am Glazial Arrobotis the Third,” the shark said. “Unbiased Council Chairman.” His black eyes flicked to me with all the warmth of a tax audit. “The charges are as follows:

One. Acts of barbarism against a fully legal and authorized invasion.

Two. Failure to register with the Council prior to full systemic induction.

Three. Destruction of property belonging to an Allied World during attempted conquest.”

What the actual fuck?

“Representative of Earth,” Glazial said without pause, “do you wish to contest any of these charges?”

I’d read the manual and this part was one of the few things that was in plain English.

“I do.”

“Which claims do you feel you can dispute without wasting the Council’s valuable time?”

The smart play might have been to pick one. Maybe two. Something winnable. And plead guilty to the rest; try for some leniency. The manual even had provisions for remorseful defendants; reduced sentencing for good behavior and groveling. And the penalties could be knocked down a few tiers. You know, just a bit of mild maiming and light slavery.

But I thought of my uncle in Kentucky, teaching his kids to shoot while the world cracked open. I thought of every person who died confused, afraid, defending a world no one warned was up for grabs.

“All of them.”

The chamber reacted like I’d farted in a cathedral. Noise swelled and dropped as Glazial raised a hand.

“Do you recognize that false contestation carries personal penalty and financial burden, as well as potentially increased penalties if found baseless?” he asked.

That part wasn’t in the manual. My stomach turned. But I wondered how that could possibly be worse than my fate if I didn’t contest them. I had no idea but it sounded bad.

“I do,” I said anyway.

“So it is recorded.” He turned, voice smooth again. “We begin with Statements of Fact.”

Not allegations; “facts”.

“Three parties have filed grievances of barbarism and crimes against the Allied Races: the Karens, the Cerulians, and the Gravethralls, for Earth's murder of their lawfully invading forces. This represents the most egregious and severe charge.”

My fists clenched but I forced myself to stay calm.

“Earth's self-destructive actions have also been formally grieved. The destruction of property; cities, resources, and undeveloped labor force, caused by Earth's refusal to comply with lawful conquest. This charge has been unanimously filed by all present Allied Races: the Karens, the Gravethralls, the Mewsari, and the Chondrians.”

So that's what they called themselves. The Chondrians.

“This excludes the Xarnathi, of course, who have chosen not to participate in this petition, as is customary for their species. Likewise, the charge of failure to apply in a timely manner for Council Membership has been unanimously filed. Again, save for the Xarnathi.”

Whiskers wouldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t know if I blamed him, not really. Maybe it worked like a class action lawsuit; opt in, or you don’t get a payout.

Glazial’s tone sharpened. “Per protocol, we now hear from the first aggrieved party. The Karen delegation.”

Cassandra rose. Elegant. Tall. Dangerously passive-aggressive.

“The facts,” she began, “are clear. Earth inflicted harm on many of our kind.” She tapped her tablet.

The screen flickered to life. Footage of me in combat. Protecting civilians. Killing invaders. The works. Xarnathi, Graventhalls, Cerulians, and even some Karens.

“Our casualties were few,” she said, “but we take great offense to the harm done to the gentle Xarnathi. They arrived early, as is their nature as a scavenger species, and were tragically harmed by Earth’s uncivilized panic. As they are notoriously absent from Council affairs, I move to file grievance on their behalf.”

She smiled sweetly, the way you smile before pressing a pillow over someone’s face.

“And I humbly request that their portion of Earth’s reclaimed assets be turned over to the Karen Delegation for charitable redistribution. Among the Xarnathi, of course.”

Translation: we get the stuff.

The shark stood again. “Objections?”

None. It seemed like everyone expected this, like they were used to it.

“So it is recorded.”

Cassandra wasn't done. “In addition, I move to dismiss his protests under Protocol 77821, Subparagraph B: the Clear and Evident Sentience clause. Humans are a savage thing, barely above poisonous plant life, but this is no reason to make them suffer the penalties of false contestations against these clearly factual charges. Their efforts will only make their outcome worse. I cannot abide harming such a lowly species. As an act of kindness, and against my better judgment, I move to revoke this... representative's position, nullify their protests, and immediately transfer their species under the protective care of the Karens for proper integration.”

Whiskers' ears flattened against his skull. His claws extended slightly before he forced them back in.

Something white-hot exploded behind my ribs. My vision narrowed to a tunnel focused on her smug face.

“This is ridiculous!” The words tore out of me, echoing off the chamber walls before I could stop them. “I won't let you enslave Earth and call it peace. You want to talk barbaric? What about you? Is this how you treat representatives under your protection? Since arriving here I've been poked, prodded, kept in the dark. And someone tried to kill me in a rehab chamber yesterday.”

The chamber exploded with sound. Gasps, roars, static outrage. Cassandra just smiled.

Glazial raised a hand.

“The Earth Delegate will be silent during member statements. Do you have evidence of attempted murder?”

“Well, not direct, but—”

“Strike recorded,” he interrupted. “One more and your privilege to attend this hearing will be revoked.”

My mouth snapped shut. Every nerve in my body crackled with rage.

“Is this motion seconded?” he asked.

One of his delegates raised a hand. The judge's own people getting to vote felt like rigged dice in a crooked game.

“Motion to revoke Earth’s delegation rights under the Clear and Evident Sentience Clause is seconded,” Glazial continued. “Standard test will be applied: proof of civilization above animal level.”

That took a moment to process.

Animals don't have rights. She was trying to have us classified as animals. No, worse. Plankton. At least some animals were protected.

“Do you have evidence to support humanity's classification as a sentient and civilized species?” Glazial asked.

I blinked. “Right now? Like... on me?”

“Yes. All representatives are expected to be prepared. If you lack comprehension of protocol, that is not this Council's burden.”

Whiskers raised a hand lazily.

“Delegate Whiskers.” Glazial called on him.

“Perhaps,” Whiskers purred, “given the urgency of this meeting and the possibility that the Representative's assets were damaged or lost in the recent Rehabilitation Chamber malfunction, we could allow some leniency. Earth does have a cultural database. Our ship has access and could provide it here, if the honorable Council Chairman would permit.”

Glazial considered this, then nodded. “Given your recent circumstances, we will allow access to Earth's data archive.”

Whiskers gestured. The towering screen encircling the chamber blinked from a sea of alien faces to pure, blinding white. And then—fuck. It stared at me like a Lovecraftian horror.

One terrible blinking cursor. A search box.

Google.

I stared. This was how they wanted me to prove humanity deserved to exist? A fucking search engine?

“For fairness, we will download the complete results of whatever subject you choose. There will be no cherry-picking,” Glazial said. “Now, what evidence do you have?”

A holographic keyboard materialized before me.

I could search science. Art. Philosophy. But every path led to the same digital wasteland. Reddit forums, shit posting, cat videos. The internet's unfiltered chaos. And worse.

Countless lives depended on finding humanity on the internet.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I reached for the keyboard.

Here goes everything.