Book One - Chapter Twenty-Three: The Manager Will See You Now

Forty-seven seconds. That’s how long the celebration lasted. Long enough for the scoreboard to flash HUMANITY WINS, and the audience screens to dim.

Then Cassandra stood. No announcement. No ceremony.

Her corporate polish had cracked. Jaw clenched. Eyes blazing with the kind of cold fury reserved for when you ask for the manager, only to discover that they are the manager.

“Congratulations,” she said. “You've won the right to die... as a recognized species.”

The air left the room.

“I'm sorry, what?”

“The civilization test,” she said, smiling. “Determines eligibility for representation. That’s all. It does not grant immunity. Or forgiveness. Or funding.”

She took a step forward. The heel of her shoe clicked.

“I know—” I started but she pressed on.

“You will still likely owe trillions of credits. You violated territorial law, failed to register your war crimes with the Department of Galactic Conflicts. And more importantly—” she turned to the chamber, “—you have no real allies to speak of. No sponsors. No Council backing. In short, you have nothing. The only difference now,” she said, each word filed to a point, “is we’ll execute you as the Representative... with courtesy. Now, do you have any evidence to prove your innocence of the crimes?”

It was Glazial who interrupted then. “Pardon me, High Priestess Cassandra. That question falls to the chairman.”

Cassandra inclined her head in acknowledgment, not looking away from me.

The chairman adjusted in his seat, voice neutral as static. “Representative Jerry, do you have evidence to support your defense?”

“I, uh, well…” My thoughts scattered like leaves in wind. I had rehearsed. I had notes, logic, technicalities. Only one had teeth. “We’ve made mistakes, yes. We are not perfect. But under the Protected Species Act, I formally request humanity be granted status and allowed to reapply for membership in five hundred years.”

Cassandra laughed. A single sharp note, like something breaking.

The chairman cleared his throat. “To qualify as a protected species, a civilization requires five hundred Civilization Points. You are well below the threshold. However, a majority Council vote may override this requirement.”

“Then... I request the vote.”

Not a single hand moved. Not even Whiskers. I turned to him, barely keeping upright, willing him to act. He didn’t.

“Motion denied. Do you have any other defense?”

The room tilted. My chest hollowed. Words jammed behind my ribs and refused to rise.

Cassandra raised her hand again, eyes forward. “I move for immediate asset liquidation. This species has wasted enough of our time and resources.”

Across the chamber, nods rippled like falling dominoes. They had been interested during the Civilization game, but their attention had waned considerably since. We were officially fucked.

Glazial spoke. “Is this motion seconded?”

That’s when Admiral Whiskers raised his paw, and the room stilled. He couldn’t be… not him.

“Do I take it that the Mewsari delegation is seconding this motion?” Glazial asked.

Whiskers didn’t answer at first. The Mewsari delegation leader spoke then. His eyes, ancient and deliberate, remained fixed on a small pulsing device in his other paw. Only after the silence tilted toward him did he speak, voice calm as steel beneath velvet.

“No. My apologies for the confusion. Whiskers was requesting your attention only. The Mewsari delegation has received a communiqué of urgent military consequence. We require immediate recess.”

Cassandra’s jaw ticked. “This is a stall tactic. I move to proceed immediately!”

“As a founding member of this Council,” the grey cat said, each word deliberate, precise, “we retain the right to invoke emergency recess under Protocol 7749-B. Matters of planetary security demand it. No final decisions may be made during this time, nor may distributions proceed until we return.”

The temperature dropped like everyone in the room remembered that the Mewsari had claws. Remembered what their fleets looked like when they stopped asking nicely.

“This is a farce! What could you possibly need to respond to?”

“The contents of the communiqué are classified,” Whiskers said, taking over. “In addition, in the interest of interstellar order, the Mewsari delegation moves for immediate Ceasefire and Suspension of All Military Activity on earth until we’ve rendered our decision. We would prefer the planet remain intact while we evaluate its value.”

“Preposterous!” The Karen leader snapped, rising so quickly her voice broke. She was steaming now, her composure finally cracked. “You… you… you can’t just—”

“But I can,” Whiskers said, still not looking at her. “Unless you'd like to challenge the rights of a founding species to invoke adjournment. Or—” he looked up now, gaze cutting clean through her— “unless your delegation had intended to seize assets during this very session?”

That shut her up.

And just like that, the knife was pulled back—Earth, for the moment, spared from the block.

Cassandra opened her mouth, then closed it. Objecting would brand her as someone who disrespected sacred Council law. Agreeing meant losing her momentum.

She was trapped.

Chairman Glazial sighed like a man reading his own obituary. “The request is granted. This tribunal stands in recess for six standard hours.”

The gavel dropped with a sound like the last nail in a coffin.

As delegates filed out, grumbling about delays and missed dinner reservations, I caught Whiskers' eye. For just a heartbeat, something passed between us. Not a wink. Nothing so human. But his pupils tightened, and I understood.

Something was in motion.

The Karens were the first to leave, each in a perfect huff.

The room emptied, leaving me alone with my hollow victory and six hours to figure out if we'd been rescued from the gallows or just rerouted past the gift shop on the way down.

I stared at the scoreboard—HUMANITY WINS—mocking me like a participation trophy at a gladiator match.

We'd won the right to die.

Now we had to figure out how to live.

Time moved like honey in winter. Could've been twenty minutes. Could've been an hour. The adrenaline crash had left me hollow, my body a marionette with cut strings. My mind kept cycling through the same loop: We won. Still fucked. We won. But still fucked.

That's when I heard it. A voice. Cocky. Self-assured. The kind of confidence that suggested its owner had never met a problem he couldn't charm, fight, or fuck his way out of.

“Well,” the voice drawled, “not looking too good for your people, eh?”

I turned, and there he was, standing among the empty Cerulian seats as if he'd been there the whole time. He wore the traditional monk cloak but he wasn't blue.

He was grinning with pure mischief, the expression of someone who'd stolen a cookie and wanted you to catch him. One leg was propped on the chair ahead, robes parted just enough to flash crimson pants.

“Whipsteele?” The name came out as a question, even though I already knew.

His grin widened, showing teeth that were just a little too white, a little too sharp.

“In the flesh, mate. Jack Whipsteele, at your service.” He swept into a theatrical bow. “Though I gotta say, that was quite the show you put on. Bureaucracy as salvation? Bloody brilliant. Twisted, but brilliant.”

“Yeah. Doesn't matter much now though, does it? Come to watch us die?”

“We should probably find somewhere private.”