The Trial of Avery Froelich is a story based on a pro life argument I’ve used for years, namely, that the brain defines the being, and nothing else. In fact, the main character’s original name was Avery Froelip, which is an anagram of “a very pro-life,” but I decided that was too silly, and chose the more German-sounding name of Froelich instead.

Bast10n Magazine was just getting started. They were very excited about this story and worked with me through a few drafts to make sure it got in. It was published in the inaugural issue of Bastion Magazine in April of 2014. Maddingly, when I went back to check the archives, I discovered that they struck my story from the Table of Contents, leaving the issue with only eight stories instead of the original nine. As such, publishing it here seemed appropriate. However, when I went back to check again recently, I found that it was back where it belonged. Very cool.

******

            Even the inept policemen on Mars Colony Six could tell that the old man, Tyrell Horopecci, had been murdered.  Officially, no crime ever took place in Sixth Colony, or so said the brochures.  Unofficially, well, the multiple gunshot wounds would have made the situation obvious enough, even if the body weren’t missing a head, which it was.    

            The obvious suspect was his son-in-law, Avery Froelich, who stood to inherit the entire estate.  Police had actually once suspected him of foul play before when his wife, Horopecci’s daughter, conveniently disappeared.  This time, however, Froelich had no alibi, and police were able to make an arrest.  Now, with the murder trial finally underway, it seemed as though prosecutors were about to blow their case like a Martian dust storm.  However, the lead prosecutor had a remarkable trump card up his sleeve and was about to play it.

***

            “Continuation of The People vs. Avery Simon Froelich. Charge of murder in the first degree.  Court is now in session,” announced the bailiff.

            “Very well,” replied the presiding Honorable Judge Morris, banging his gavel.  He was dressed in his Martian-red robes rather than the more traditional black robes worn on Earth, with the similarly traditional faux bald head instead of a powdered wig.  Such bald-caps were worn in honor of the early Martian pioneers who had lost their hair due to exposure to cosmic rays.  On Mars, bald was not only beautiful, it was powerful, too.

            “Your Honor,” announced a similarly bald-capped Fredrick Stroh, District Attorney, “if there are no objections, I would like to call our final witness to the stand.”

            “Mr. Burgbe, any objections?” asked the judge.

            “Your Honor, I don’t recall that the prosecution has any witnesses left to call upon,” answered Romney Burgbe, Froelich’s defense attorney.

            “Actually, Your Honor, there is one more,” Stroh rejoindered.  “It is listed as recorded testimony number 118-A.”

            The judge examined his notes.  “Yes, I do see that here,” he observed, “but you said it was a witness.  A recorded testimony cannot be a witness, Mr. Stroh.”

            “Begging your forgiveness, Your Honor,” the prosecutor replied. “But that will all become clear when you see the recording device.”

            “Very well.  Present your recorded testimony.”

            “Thank you.  If it please the court,” Stroh announced, “the prosecution calls Mr. Tyrell Horopecci to the stand.”

            “I beg your pardon?” the judge asked.

            A figure entered from the back of the courtroom which appeared, at first, to be a man wearing some sort of white-colored body armor.  A slightly closer inspection would have given the impression that this was a person dressed in a standard space suit.  Such suits were common sights on Mars, but were neither necessary nor typically worn by those inside the city-dome, and were completely inappropriate for an appearance in court regardless.  It was the figure’s jerky movements, along with subtly generated buzzing and whirring noises, which finally made it obvious to all what it was: A robot.

            “Mr. Stroh, just what the hell is this?” asked the judge.

            “This, Your Honor, is Mr. Horopecci,” the D.A. replied.  “And he is here to testify regarding the nature of his murder.”

            “Objection!” rose Burgbe.  “This is a robot, not the late Mr. Horopecci.  And even if it somehow isn’t, Horopecci cannot testify.  He’s dead!”

            “True,” Stroh agreed.  “But the dead often testify in their own murder trials, either through forensics, or recorded testimony.  They might do so through a letter, a picture, or even an audio or video recording.  This has always been allowed in the past.  Why not now?”

            Burgbe frowned.  “Surely, Your Honor, we can all see that this is none of those things.”

            “Yes, indeed,” agreed the bench.  “But Mr. Horopecci was a successful robotics engineer, and his home had many such robots in it, as I recall.  It could well be that this testimony pertains to just such a device.  I’ll hear what this so-called ‘witness’ has to say. Please proceed.”

            “But Your Honor!” Burgbe interrupted, “The prosecution is under strict rules to not produce any surprise witnesses!  It’s unconstitutional!  This should be grounds for an immediate mistrial!”

            The judge considered this.  “You may be right, Counselor, but something tells me we’re dealing not only with something which isn’t a literal ‘witness’ as such but also a new legal precedent, and according to Colonial jurisprudence, I do have some flexibility.  I’ll allow this to proceed.”  He glared at Burgbe.  “Unless you’d care to contradict me again?”

            Burgbe opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again, and took his seat.

            “Thank you, Your Honor,” said the D.A., who then gestured to the court clerk.  “If the witness could please be sworn in?”

            “Objection!” the defense rose again.  “This is a device!  It doesn’t need swearing in!”

            “Begging the court’s indulgence, Your Honor?”

            Morris scratched his faux bald head a moment.  “All right, Stroh, but I’m starting to have real misgivings about this.  You’d better know what you’re doing.”

            The court clerk hesitated a moment, not quite sure how to handle the odd situation, but the robot obligingly raised its right… “hand,” and he took the prompt.  “Uh, do you solemnly swear or affirm that what you are about to say is the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

            “I do so swear.”

            The voice sounded perfectly normal, without even the tinny sort of tone normally associated with a small, speaker-like device.

            “Uh, be…”

            The robot did not wait for the clerk to finish before taking the witness stand.

            “…seated?”

            The D.A. approached the stand and placed his elbow on the lectern.  “Could you please state your name for the record?”

            “I am the brain of Tyrell A. Horopecci, currently being sustained by a GE Myotain-6 cerebral nourishing unit, and housed inside a Honda Asimo, Model 12-J, humanoid transport…”

            “Objection!” Burgbe yelled.  “This robot could be programmed to say anything!  It claims to be the brain of Horopecci, but how can we know?”

            “If it please the court,” said Stroh, “The proof Mr. Burgbe requires is already legally a matter of public record, and I have all the paperwork here for the court to examine.  The living status of his brain tissue, the identity of the donor, and the interactivity of the brain with this machine are all established though Sanjay Labs, plus numerous physicians at Kim Stanley Robinson Memorial Hospital who can testify as to these facts.  Also the biotechnics department of Robert Silverberg University, a recognized government-funded entity, has recognized this robot as being under the control of Tyrell Horopecci’s brain, which means that under Martian Code 626-27, the actuality of this brain driving the robotic unit…”

            “Fine! Fine!” Burgbe interrupted.  He was positively red in the face, now.  “But I still object!  If this thing really contains the brain of Mr. Horopecci, and it really is driving this robot, then it becomes perfectly obvious that he isn’t actually dead!  His brain’s alive!  And living inside this… this… thing!  And since it’s clear that Horopecci is now some sort of cyborg, I think it stands to reason that he was not, in actuality, murdered!  I therefore move that this trial be ended and that the charges against my client be dropped!”

            The judge’s eyebrows went up.  “I’m rather inclined to agree with defense council on this one, Mr. Stroh.  If Mr. Horopecci is alive, you might want to drop the murder charge and try Mr. Froelich for assault and attempted murder.”

            “I beg to differ, Your Honor,” said the D.A., who now had a smug look in his eye.  “You’re aware that Martian Law 2211 defines human life as beginning at conception?”

            His Honor’s eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement.  “Yes, but I fail to see the relevance…”

            “And you’re also aware that recent passage of Edict 4319 has also outlawed euthanasia, even in cases where the brain is unresponsive?”

            “Yes.  But…”  The judge stopped.  He could see where the D.A. was going with this.

            “Then, under Mars Law, the condition of the brain is irrelevant to the determination as to whether someone is alive or dead!  Abortion is illegal because a fetus is considered a living person before the brain forms, and euthanasia is illegal because a person is considered still a living person, even after the brain ceases functioning.  Under Martian law, the definition is clear.  We have Horopecci’s dead body, right now, in Pathfinder Cemetery.  His brain, while still alive, is outside his body, and therefore outside Mars Law.  The robot which sustains it is legally nothing more than a mechanical device and, incidentally, cannot therefore be categorized as an unconstitutional surprise witness.  The charge of murder stands!”

            There were murmurs all around the courtroom, and the judge let this bizarre turn of events sink in over a long, agonizing moment as he rubbed his chin, pensively.  It was a brilliant argument, he had to admit, convoluted though it was.  He was shaking his head when he finally turned to the defense council and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Burgbe, but he’s right.”

            “But Your Honor…”

            “I honestly don’t like it any more than you do.  But in regards to Martian Law, the definition is clear.  Mr. Horopecci is technically dead, and your client’s still on the hook.”

            “But this is insane!”  Burgbe pounded his fist and pointed. “Horopecci is right there!”

            “He is,” Judge Morris agreed.  “And it is.  But it’s the law.”

            Defense council’s countenance deflated as swiftly as a Hellas Planitia balloon-tent with a gash in its side.  He was sunk, and he knew it. “One moment with my client, Your Honor?” he begged.  Then, after a hastily whispered conversation with Froelich, announced, “If it please the court, we would like to withdraw our plea of ‘not guilty,’ and enter a plea of ‘guilty.’”

            Gasps and short cries of shock and surprise were given by all jurors and spectators in the courtroom.  Even the D.A. was taken aback.

            “I see,” said the judge, who wasn’t at all sure he did.  “Mr. Froelich, are you aware of the consequences to your admission of guilt in this matter?”

            “Your Honor,” he said, getting to his feet, “My lawyer seems to think that I’m screwed on this one, and that pleading guilty is the only way to gain clemency, but I’m not so sure about all this.  Is that really Tyrell Horopecci’s brain on the stand?”

            “See for yourself!” said the robot, who lifted up his helmet to show the glass-cased cerebral nourishing fluid, and the brain itself.  Its eyes were still attached to the optic nerves beneath it, and those eyes seemed to be staring at Froelich, accusingly.  “You killed me, my one-time sonny-boy!  And probably my little girl, too!  Now I’m here to see to it that you pay for what you’ve done!”

            Froelich practically fell back into his seat, and held his hands out in front of his face in a vain effort to shield himself from the gaze of the horrible apparition.  “Guilty!” he shrieked.  “Guilty!  Guilty!  Guilty!  Oh, God!  Someone make him stop looking at me!”

            There were disturbed murmurs all about the courtroom as eyes turned away from the apparition, and two people among the spectators fainted.  The judge turned to the robot and said, “Mr. Horopecci, for the benefit of the court, would you please replace your helmet?”

            The robot obliged, and the brain was again concealed from view.

            Judge Morris mopped his forehead with his sleeve, signifying the relief he felt at the monstrosity beneath the helmet being covered once more.  Finally, he found his voice again.  “Well, I don’t know if this is the strangest trial I’ve ever presided over, but it comes damned close.  It’s fair to say that something this bizarre could only happen on a Mars Colony.  If a trial like this happened on Earth, they’d almost certainly have declared a mistrial by now.  As it is, I have latitude with my rulings, and I’m sad to say that I feel I must exercise it.  We have a changed plea to guilty from not-guilty, so the court will proceed on that basis.  I’m going to set the sentencing hearing for 1300 tomorrow, Bradbury-Zone Time, at which….”

            The court loudly murmured, as press agents scurried about with the buzz of the guilty finding.  The D.A. was smiling, shaking hands, and beginning to gather up his briefs.

            “Order!” barked the judge as he banged his gavel.  “And not so fast, Mr. Stroh!”

            Stroh turned around.

            The judge smiled.  “Court is not yet adjourned.  So could you please do us all the courtesy of not celebrating right away?  We still have your so-called ‘witness’ on the stand, remember!”

            “Oh,” said the surprised D.A., suddenly taking his seat.  “Yes, of course, Your Honor.  Sorry.”

            “Now, in spite of the district attorney’s office flirting seriously with prosecutorial misconduct over this stunt, I’m curious.  So while we still just happen to have our witness on the stand, I would like to take the opportunity to ask him how he came to be in this… state of being.”

            “Your Honor…!” cried Burgbe.

            “Relax, council, I’m directing that this not be read into the record.  Mr. Horopecci, how is it that you came to be… That is, how were you made into, um…”

            “It’s quite all right, Your Honor,” replied the robot.  “It’s basically quite simple.  As you have undoubtedly already surmised, my son in law shot me several times after somehow gaining access to my penthouse flat.  I never did find out how he gained access, but I saw him clearly, and he used a silencer.”

            Gasps and cries of astonishment were once again heard, along with clamoring and loud shouts which echoed throughout, as press agents were frantically recalled back inside.

            “Order!”  The judge again banged his gavel, and the courtroom reluctantly calmed down.  “Now, what happened next?”

            “One of my robots is the Yanno-27,” he replied, “which acts as a servant and helps me with various projects.  It was programmed to act as an emergency first alert system, and so was monitoring my heartbeat and respiration.  When it detected that they’d stopped, it came to me, and found me shot and lying on the floor.  It quickly determined that my wounds were fatal, so it then did what I’d programmed it to do in such a circumstance.  After attaching my carotid arteries and jugular veins into blood pumps to keep my brain oxygenated, it removed my head.”

            Voices again began muttering around the courtroom, but this time, even the judge was stunned.  He did not even bother to call the courtroom to order.

            Horopecci continued, “The Yanno was then able to transport my head, and my brain with it, to the Sanjay labs, located on the ground-floor of the same building.  The researchers there, through a prior financial arrangement, were then able to eventually put me in the condition you see me in, now.  You see, I’m an old man, Your Honor.  My body was doomed to die, anyway.  But my brain could still live on.”

            Now the voices in the courtroom suddenly became much louder , and the judge found enough wits again to begin banging repeatedly and sharply on his gavel.  “Do I need to clear this courtroom?” he bellowed.  The noise died down.  “Mr. Horopecci, that must be the most amazing thing I’ve heard in my 23 years as a sitting judge.  And I must say, I admire you for having the means and the courage to pull it off.  In the meantime…”

            “Um, excuse me, Your Honor?” interrupted a voice to the right and slightly behind from where the judge was sitting.  It was Mr. Flanner, the Clerk General.  One of the peculiarities of Martian law was that severe matters of property were often affected by seemingly unrelated court cases.  It was the Clerk General’s job to make sure that no such matters were overlooked.  In a hostile frontier setting like Mars, such details made all the difference between wealth and poverty, or life and death – often enough the same thing.  “It’s probably over for Mr. Froelich,” said Flanner, “but because he was Horopecci’s only remaining heir, there will have to be a probate hearing to follow.”

            The judge took that in, then realized with a start that the Clerk General was correct.  “Why, yes!  I almost missed that.  Thank you for reminding me.”

            “Begging your pardon, Your Honor,” said Stroh, “but I don’t quite follow.  What does that mean?”

            The judge, at first, gave him a puzzled look as if the prosecuting attorney had just asked the stupidest question in the world, then remembered that he, himself had almost missed the detail.  “Well, Stroh,” he explained, “With Froelich ruled guilty, his property rights will be nullified.  That means no one will be able to inherit Horopecci’s estate, especially with this court confirming his status as being dead.  The Martian Government will have to hold a probate hearing in order to seize and liquidate all of the assets in question.  Eventual distributions will be handed out to any of Horopecci’s extended next of kin as the legal system may be able to locate, unless his daughter can somehow be found before she’s declared legally deceased as well.” He frowned, deeply.  Then, turning to the robotized Horopecci, apologized.  “I am truly sorry, sir.  You are dismissed as a witness, of course.”

            “No, Your Honor!” Stroh belted out, getting to his feet.  “If his assets are seized, he will lack the financial means to sustain the robotics which his brain depends upon.  The justice system will have killed him!”

            Judge Morris gave a burning stare to the D.A.  “The justice system can’t kill him, Mr. Stroh.  He’s already dead!  Remember?”

            The D.A. opened his mouth to reply, and found he couldn’t.

            The judge then took a moment to collect himself, and then began talking as though speaking his thoughts out loud would somehow help him to put them together.  “You know, nothing about this bizarre case satisfies me,” he said to the courtroom.  “Damn it all, but Mr. Burgbe is absolutely right.  Mr. Horopecci is not, in fact, dead.  That much is obvious.  But the law, for reasons of religiously-inspired imperatives, must see him as deceased, and that saddens me.”

            He paused, not daring to speak any more of his thoughts out loud.  That phrase he’d just uttered might cost him the next election.  But hell, it needed to be said!  After all, which one was doing a worse job of playing God, the Religious Right, or the scientists?  Well, they, they both lost this time!  Certainly, if Mars Law ever caught up with science, the condition of the brain would have to be the thing to determine whether a person is alive or dead.  But once that’s done, early-term abortion and late-term euthanasia would become legal once more, and His Honor certainly didn’t see that happening anytime soon.  Finally, realizing that he needed to conclude the proceedings, he pulled back from his reverie and continued.

             “Well, it seems, Mr. Stroh, that you have yourself a classic Pyrrhic victory, here.  And a poetic one, at that.  Mr. Froelich is rightly convicted, but of the wrong crime!”  Then he turned to the robot, saying, “And Mr. Horopecci, you have my respect and my admiration.  You have utterly lost everything, but somehow managed to still retain your mind.”  He added, under his breath, “Hell, you might be the only one on this whole, crazy planet who has.”

            He brought his gavel down one final time. “Court is adjourned!”