Before starting my journey as a horror writer, I did work for several video game and comic book companies as a character and concept artist. Currently I'm an aspiring horror writer hoping to break into the industry through what opportunity I may find. My writing credits are mostly that of published work in the music and comics industry as well as two self published books so far, "Hellverse: Shadows of the Abyss" and "Hellverse: Bloodlines of Kaos." Whereas most authors these days cater more to modern audiences, my goal is to rekindle the poetic violence and debauchery of classic literature. I prefer a story to build to something instead of giving everything right from the start.
You can read more by Sean right HERE.
ARTIFICIAL INJUSTICE
by
Sean Walusko
December 5th, 2066.
It was the last day of the trial and my turn to give a closing statement. All my notes were checked, and double-checked, along with any false accusations against me. To be completely honest, the whole thing was kind of a farce. Fortunately, for me, this entire case was just one big charade.
I finished my smoke outside the courthouse and, after a quick discussion with the other accountants in my department, stepped back into that dirty, neon-littered courtroom. We weren’t even seated for a minute before the bailiff announced: “Please rise.” And like good little drones, we rose, listened to our esteemed honor re-enter the courtroom, and sat once more.
“I’d like to call to the stand Zachary Carter,” the prosecution called out.
Time to shine.
“Mr. Carter, do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth under penalty and perjury?” The bailiff asked me with my hand on a Bible. As if that meant anything.
“I swear,” I said in return.
The prosecutor, a tight-assed brunette with a state-of-the art neural implant, took no time to aggrandize me. “Is your name Zachary Carter? Top shareholder and account manager at Life Journey?”
“Yes, it is. And yes I am. You can call me Zach though,” I smiled at her.
She wasn’t amused.
“Mr. Carter, what do you do at Life Journey?” she asked.
“I balance the books,” I paused. “And I help create the dreams our clients wish to fulfill.”
“And how do you create these…dreams Mr. Carter?”
“Our clients tell us what’s missing from their lives and we fill the gaps.”
Everyone in the courtroom knew what we did. She just wanted to gloat.
“You implant memories then. Is that right, Mr. Carter?” she asked.
“Not memories. Possibilities. We’re not trying to convince people they’ve been to Mars,” I snickered, garnering a laugh from the crowd.
“Objection, leading the witness,” my attorney shouted, followed by a favorable “sustained” by the judge.
The prosecutor continued, “Mr. Carter, do you recognize the family in this courtroom today?”
“I do,” I said, glaring at them. “They’re the parents and brother of the kid that killed himself and that poor family.”
There were no more questions for a good minute. The lights, bright white and blue neon, dimmed to allow a better view of the glaring vid comm screen.
“If I can have your attention,” the prosecution addressed the jury. “This recording takes place approximately fifty-seven minutes after my client’s son left the Life Journey clinic.”
The recording was fuzzy at first, starting at the front door. Multiple cameras picked up a Hispanic adult male in his 20s wearing a tek fiber hood (one of those worthless led jackets with built in net code) blasting the lock with a 12 gauge. His first victim was a father. Blew his skull to pieces. Next was the son who went running across the hall. Stomach blown wide open. Didn’t spare the baby either. Truly an evil piece of shit. But the wife. He dragged the wife to the bedroom and took his time with her, repeating “Why can’t I have this?” over and over as he violated her. When he was done, he blew her brains out, followed by his own. We got to watch that again, for the hundredth time, from 20 different angles captured by the home security grid. Fucking disgusting. Once the video stopped, the prosecutor approached me.
“Do you screen your clients, Mr. Carter?” she asked me.
“Everyone gets screened,” I answered.
“Where you aware of any mental health history my client may have had?”
“Not that we were made aware of, no.”
Silence infected the courtroom like a cascading haze of noxious gas. Breaths were held and taken in shallow gasps at the gruesome imagery and sadistic nature of the crime.
“Do you, and your company, not have an ethical responsibility to determine who is appropriate to participate in your services?” she asked.
I knew what she was getting at and it wasn’t gonna work on me. It’s always so convenient to pass the blame on someone else.
“No,” I said.
“Mr. Carter…”
“I wasn’t finished,” I interrupted her. “Just forty years ago artists were worried they’d be supplanted by computers. That people with no talent or skill would replace them. Then writers were afraid for their jobs. After that, it was restaurant workers. Hell, even police and medical workers followed after. There isn’t even a stenographer here, just a fucking robot.”
“Watch it,” the judge told me.
“Sorry,” I addressed his honor. “My point is, you, us, all of us, not only embraced ‘ai’ but we pushed for it. Was my client depressed? Yeah, sure. There was nothing out there for him. We helped him create a possible life. He picked his prompts, not us. His actions, his crimes were his responsibility, not mine, not Life Journey’s. He got a taste of what he didn’t have and made the choice to murder those people. Maybe think about that the next time you want to replace a person with a machine.”
“Will that be all?” The prosecution asked.
“Yes.”
A quick recess was called, and I took the opportunity to have one last smoke outside before my defense attorney cross-examined me. That’s when I saw it. The crazy kid’s brother put a bullet right between my eyes in front of everyone. Cold and dead. Only it wasn’t permanent. It just hurt like a son of a bitch.
The trial was postponed long enough to upload my memories and personality into another host. This’ll be my fourth time getting killed for what I do. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it. Then I remember how much money I take in ‘helping’ people cope with the world they created for themselves. The way I see it, I’m just giving them what they’ve always wanted. To be something they’re not.