Galaxy Blues by Allen Steele

table. One of them stood up as I walked in‚ and introduced himself as my court-appointed attorney. Rail-thin and affable, with curly hair that seemed to stand on end, he seemed more like someone you’d find throwing darts in the nearest pub. Better to have him on my side, though, than the other barrister, who barely nodded in my direction before returning sour eyes to his pad; I wondered if being a prosecutor was his way of compensating for going bald before he was thirty.
    My lawyer had just finished telling me, in a low whisper, not to speak unless I was spoken to, and only then to say just what was necessary— play dumb, and let me do the talking —when another door opened and the magistrates walked in. Two men and a woman, each wearing long, black robes, all of whom looked as if they’d had lemons for breakfast. Everyone rose as they strode to the bench, and we took our seats again when they did. The Chief Magistrate picked up her gavel, gave it a perfunctory smack on the table, and called court to order, and then we were off and running.
    And I do mean running, because we were in and out of there in less than twenty minutes. The head maggie asked the prosecuting attorney if he was ready and willing to press charges against the accused, identified as Jules Truffaut. He responded that he was indeed: two counts of identity theft, possession of forged documents, stowing away aboard an interstellar vessel registered to the Coyote Federation, two counts of assault against Federation Navy officers, theft of a spacecraft registered to the Federation, unauthorized intrusion into Federation airspace, and unauthorized landing upon territory in possession of a Federation colony.
    I didn’t need to be familiar with Colony Law to know that I was seriously up a creek, and not just one found on this planet. Forget deportation. Considering that there was no question that I’d committed every single offense, I would be lucky if I spent the rest of my days in the stockade…if they didn’t first ship my criminal ass back to Earth.
    When the Chief Magistrate asked how I would plead, though, my attorney calmly rose to tell her that I was pleading nolo contendere to all charges, on the grounds that, as a citizen of the Western Hemisphere Union who had grievances with his government, I had been forced to defect to Coyote with the intent of requesting political asylum. The magistrates took a few minutes to study their pads and murmur to one another, and then Her Honor summoned both attorneys to the bench. They spoke for five or ten minutes, their voices too low for me to hear. The lawyers returned to their seats, and my attorney barely smiled when the Chief Magistrate announced that my case would be remanded to a future date, as yet to be determined by the court. Until then I was free on bail, which had already been posted by a third party.
    Another bang of the gavel, and it was over and done. My attorney shook my hand, wished me good luck, then turned and walked away. The last I saw of him, he and the prosecutor were ambling together from the courtroom, chuckling over some small joke I didn’t catch. The magistrates had already disappeared; a brief glimpse of black robes gliding through the anteroom door, and they were gone. Even the proctors who’d brought me took a powder after one of them came forward to release my handcuffs; he clapped me on the shoulder, told me to stay out of trouble, and followed his pal out of the room.
    All at once, I was alone. Nowhere to go, with nothing to my name save for the clothes on my back and a few bucks in my pocket. I stood there for a moment, wondering what the hell had just happened…
    And then someone who’d been sitting quietly in the gallery all this time rose to his feet and came forward. A big guy, about a head taller than me and twice my size, with long blond hair and a thick beard to match. In a surprisingly mild voice, he informed me that his