The Morality Court

The only sound in the chamber was a pen scratching against paper.

Not the pen, of course. That pen, the priceless ceremonial pen of the Prime Author, the instrument that had signed every major law of the Galactic Collective for three thousand years, was missing. Stolen. Walked out of a restricted building by a thief who had smiled politely at a clerk and said "thank you" as the door was held open for him.

That clerk had said, "After you."

He was Velmari. And under Section 7, Subsection 12 of the Galactic Collective Charter, any species whose member aided, however inadvertently, however politely, in a compliance violation against the Prime Author was subject to Moral Reassessment.

And now Vorath, considered by most to be the finest mind the Velmari had ever produced, stood before the Collective's Morality Court to answer for it.

"Let us begin," said the Prime Author.

She sat at the center of a raised platform, flanked by three esteemed members of the Central Concordat Moral Evaluation Committee.

"The representative will answer three questions. Correct answers indicate alignment with Collective morality."

She looked up.

"Incorrect answers indicate grounds for species nullification."

Vorath's hearts were hammering. He held one hand tightly in the other and kept the Prime Author's gaze. Every Velmari who had ever lived, and every child who might yet be born, was reduced to three questions and his answers to them.

"First question." The Prime Author gestured to the panel member on her left, a creature whose mandibles clicked with impatience.

"Arbiter Sketh, if you please."

Sketh leaned forward, clicking.

"Is suffering inherently undesirable?"

Vorath blinked. He had prepared for this moment his entire life. He had studied every philosophical text the Velmari possessed, meditated on ethical paradoxes, and trained his mind to navigate the most treacherous moral terrain imaginable.

The question was simple.

"Yes," he said.

"Correct." Sketh made a note and sat back, looking faintly disappointed.

"Second question." The Prime Author gestured to her right, where a tall, reedy figure sat slumped in evident boredom. "Arbiter Conn."

Conn stirred, as if waking.

"Should power be accountable to those it affects?"

Another pause. Vorath searched for the trap, the hidden complexity, the angle from which this simple question might suddenly reveal itself to be a labyrinth.

"Yes," he said.

"Correct." Conn was already slumping again.

Two questions. Two correct answers. For the first time, Vorath allowed himself to breathe.

"Third question." The Prime Author gestured to the final panel member. "Grand Author Jardinax."

Vorath had heard of Jardinax. Everyone had heard of Jardinax. Some admired him. Some despised him. Many suspected his influence exceeded his competence.

Jardinax picked up a card from the desk in front of him, looked at it with the expression of someone checking a restaurant bill, and read aloud:

"Regardless."

He put the card on the table.

Silence.

Vorath waited for the rest of the question. It did not come.

"Regardless?" he said. "Is that it?"

Jardinax looked at the card again.

"Ah! Apologies. It says 'Regardless', question mark."

He put the card back on the table.

"Regardless of what?"

Jardinax shrugged.

Vorath's mind began to race.

Regardless. A question of absolutism, perhaps. Do moral principles hold regardless of circumstance? If someone steals to feed their starving child, is it still theft? Context matters. Nuance matters. The answer must be "no".

The mandibles clicked.

But wait. What if they were testing for relativism? A species that abandons its principles when convenient cannot be trusted. "Yes" would indicate moral backbone. Conviction. The courage to hold firm regardless of—

"Please," said Sketh, noticing the Velmari's agitation, "Take all the time you need."

"But take all the time you need, quickly," added Conn.

Regardless.

Or perhaps it was about persistence. Do you continue regardless of obstacles? In which case, "yes" was obviously correct. The Velmari were survivors. They endured.

But blind persistence was stubbornness. A species that charged forward regardless of consequences, regardless of warnings, regardless of the damage left in their wake. That wasn't admirable; that was dangerous.

The mandibles clicked again. Faster now.

"Sorry," Vorath said. "Could you please repeat the question?"

Jardinax, expression unchanged, picked up the card. He read it to himself. Then he looked up.

"Regardless?"

It didn't make a blind bit of difference.

Vorath considered asking for clarification. He could simply ask what the question meant, what "regardless" referred to, and what context he was supposed to understand.

But the question had been written by the Central Concordat Moral Evaluation Committee. To ask for clarification would imply that the question was unclear. To imply that the question was unclear would suggest that the Committee had made an error. To suggest the Committee had made an error would be to disagree with the Committee.

To disagree with the Moral Evaluation Committee was deemed immoral.

That decision was made by the Moral Evaluation Committee.

He was trapped. He had to answer a question he didn't understand, or commit the very failing he was being tested on.

Perhaps, Vorath thought desperately, the answer didn't matter. Perhaps this was a test of decisiveness. A species that paralyzed itself with overthinking, that spiraled into infinite regression when faced with ambiguity. Perhaps that was the failure state.

Commit, he thought. Show conviction.

He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and spoke with all the hope the Velmari had invested in him.

"No."

Silence.

Everyone turned to Jardinax.

Jardinax picked up the card, looked at it, and exclaimed.

"Yes."

Hope surged through Vorath's chest.

"Yes? Is it correct?"

"Oh, no, sorry." Jardinax set the card down. "No, I meant the answer was 'yes.'"

The chamber seemed to contract around Vorath. Somewhere behind him, he heard the sound of doors opening. Footsteps approaching.

"I don't understand," he said. His voice cracked. "Why? Why was it 'yes'? What did it mean?"

"I don't know, it doesn't say."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Vorath cried. "You asked the question!"

"Sure, but I didn't write it."

Hands gripped Vorath's arms. He was being turned, guided, and escorted toward the doors.

Later that evening, a janitor pushed a cleaning cart past the chamber. He paused at the bin, noticed a crumpled card inside, and fished it out with idle curiosity. He smoothed it flat and read it:

*When a civilization's history contains documented instances of cruelty, tribalism, and ecological destruction, but its present trajectory demonstrates emerging capacity for empathy, cooperation, and moral growth, should it be permitted to continue existing—"

He turned over the card.

"—regardless?"

He dropped it back in the bin and moved on.