It was a terribly hot day. The air was dry and ashy, thick with the particulate of the distant fires raging. The sidewalk melted the chewed-up footwear of those who set foot to it. It didn’t deter the crowd gathered in front of the Old Courthouse, where the trial of a villain was to take place. Their hatred was pure. Blood-lust for justice was the only honest feeling many had left.

The Trial Room quickly filled up. Where there were once heavy wooden benches to seat a small audience now stood a concrete, downstepped floor made bare to accommodate a mob. Despite the audience being clad in their old-world best (dress code, for this was a court of some law, after all), the stately courtroom, with its Romanesque faux-columns and marbled walls, had the ferocious and excited atmosphere of a greyhound track. The tasteful carved wooden barrier that lightly separated the audience from players as means of formality, had a heavy chain-link fence in its stead.

On the other side of that fence, on even ground, was the empty trial pit. Attached to the east wall was a curious thing; a six by six by ten foot box of scarred, smudged bulletproof glass. The door on the wall inside was its only point of entry. The remainder of the trial pit was fairly conventional. Adjacent to the defendant’s box was an eight foot long hefty metal table, for their counsel. Next to it was an identical metal table for the plaintiff, and adjacent to it was the witness’ stand. Tucked away in the west corner was the entrance for the players of the pit.

Ominously raised above all else, behind a magnificent stand of wood paneling, was the judge’s seat.

The Trial Pit was a sight seen less and less by the general public, as increasing numbers of similarly accused opted to forgo trial and plead guilty in hopes of leniency. Today was an event to be discussed at dinner tables and meal dispensary lines for the next few weeks. Already at the forefront of discussion was the means by which the day’s defendant, Andrew Powell Weissmann, attempted to elude justice; stowing away on a shipping container full of fire retardants being shipped off to the Nova Federação Brasileira to fight the blazes of the remaining Amazon. The crowd’s distaste for Weissmann was only matched with their curiosity as to why he’d subject himself to further humiliation.

The chaotic din was immediately silenced by a sharp ring blaring through the loudspeakers perched on the four corners of the courtroom. A robotic voice spoke out.

“Attention, members of the Public. Court will be in session in one minute. We request that you allow proceedings to occur without interruption. Silence is mandatory, or removal from the courtroom will be necessary. The Climate Justice Division of the First People’s Court of the Delaware Independent Republic thanks you for your cooperation”

With snap obedience, the audience stood in rigid posture, leaving an unnerving silence underscored by the white noise of the fans overhead. Still, sweaty bodies. Not even a cough was heard.

“Now seated is the Honorable Judge Anisha Advani of the First Court of the Delaware Independent Republic. The Prosecution will present evidence to enable Judge Advani to pass speedy judgment and sentencing, upon today’s Criminal Participant and Facilitator of the Anthropocene, Mister Andrew Powell Weissmann.” A wave of whispers broke out among the crowd,“Denialist motherfucker”, “Denialist son of a bitch”, and other colloquialisms for the unwieldy official title of the defendant.

Judge Anisha Advani seemed to materialize from her chambers, her stride upwards steady. In her late sixties, Judge Advani’s lightly creased face was an appropriate mask of stoicism. The people gazed in silent admiration at her grace, at how unbothered she seemed by the broiling heat despite the heavy traditional judge’s gown she wore.

Advani sat in her chair, drawing up her gavel and bringing it down with two sharp hits. “I now call this court into session. I request the participants of the trial please take their seats.”.

The loudspeaker blared again.

“Representing the People of the Delaware Independent Republic is Prosecutor Armando Spinoza.”

From a door on the west wall of the Trial Pit walked in a short, unassuming man, a thin portfolio slung under his arm. He lacked the ceremony and grace of Judge Advani, opting instead for a dressed-down look of rolled up shirt sleeves and a freed top-button. His air of professionalism, however, remained uncompromising. Mr. Spinoza put the portfolio on his table, pulling out a small handkerchief to daintily dab the beads of sweat rolling down his clean-shaven face.

“Your Honor.”

The Judge nodded politely, stoic as always.

“As an Actor of the Republic, do you swear to uphold law and justice with the truth alone?”

“I do.”

Spinoza took his seat.

The overhead speakers called out for the day’s star.

“The Court calls upon the defendant, one Andrew Powell Weissman, to be seated. Mr. Weissman has opted to forgo legal counsel and will thus be representing himself on this day.”

The door inside the glass box on the east wall swung inward. The crowd collectively shot their gaze at the empty chair, in bated breath, for a chance to finally see their villain in the flesh.

Ushered by unseen bailiffs on the other side, he stepped in, straight posture that tried to display dignity but only betrayed nerves. Andrew Powell Weissman was clad in a shabby suit, the last surviving of the many he wore in his distinguished path toward his downfall. Weissman was on the wrong side of 64, dark circles and wrinkles laying damage to his boyish face. He fumbled for his seat.

The chain link fence groaned from the forward momentum of human frenzy. Weissman winced pathetically, like a bug in a jar tormented by children. The sounds of Advani’s gavel rendered ineffective, the loudspeakers overhead emitted a sustained shriek as a reminder for all to stay disciplined. The noise died down to a gentle hum.

“Mr. Weissmann”, said Judge Advani, “do you swear by the truth and the truth alone?”

Weissman looked at her confused, and said nothing.

Advani’s forehead creased. “Let the record show that Mr. Weissman has refused to take oath, and will be treated as a potential perjurer herein”

“Wait, no, I do, yes!” Weissman leapt forward and bumped his forehead on his mic.

Without missing a beat, the Judge continued.

“You were found “Guilty of being complicit, through action, word, or influence, in fostering the Human-Made Holocene. And, of course, for your attempted Brazillian vacation last month, one charge of Attempted Evasion of Justice. Although the Speedy Court’s judgment has irreversibly been defaulted to a Guilty Conviction for the first charge due to your voting record as a Congressman, we stand here today because you wish to challenge your charges. I can assure you, Mr. Weissman, that a “Not Guilty” verdict is most certainly not on today’s schedule. Your opening statement, please.”

Weissman quickly glanced at the empty table where his court-assigned counsel would’ve sat.

“With all due respect, your Honor,” he quavered, “as a citizen and diplomat of the Sovereign United States, I do not recognize the legitimacy of the Delaware Independent Republic, nor its courts. My “extradition” as your court calls it, is in fact an illegal kidnapping.”`

The court erupted into a mix of groans and laughter. Judge Advani and Mr. Spinoza shared an amused glance at each other.

The Judge shot back, “And this court does not recognize your diplomat status, nor the legitimacy of the nation you call “The California Federate”. But it seems like the ball isn’t in your court, is it?”

Weissmann gulped.

She continued, “The last one to play this defense is currently scrubbing chemical toilets for the People’s Defense Unit somewhere along the coast. I hope this isn’t the only card you’re playing.”

Weissmann wiped the beards of sweat on his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. The thin ventilation slits on the sides of his box had already started to turn the air inside stagnant.

“I was a congressman for a fairly minor district in Virginia,” said the defendant. “My constituents were closely tied to the coal industry, and I voted based on their wishes and interests. I truly hate to invoke the argument that I was...just doing my job-”

The walls of his glass booth rattled with the groans and boos that erupted. Weissmann’s throat seized. He was suddenly aware of the stories told by the small, but deep scars on his glass booth.

“I was doing my job...and furthermore, if I were to take a stance that was opposed to my constituents, I would simply be voted out to be replaced by someone who played by their rules. Your Honor, whatever belief I held about...about the events that have led us here...they were irrelevant. I was only part of a bigger system. I, myself alone, didn’t exactly have the power to stop things.”

Advani’s eyebrow raised. “So you take at least partial ownership of your actions in office, in the sense that they were committed as part of being a...good public servant.” Weissmann’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, your honor! I know you understand that being bound to the will of the people is something you have to take seriously. As officials, who are elected, or appointed, we-”

Everyone in the court jumped at Judge Advani’s sudden gavel pound.

“I’ve had enough of this crap, Mr. Weissmann.”, said Advani curtly. Weissmann flinched at her vitriol.

“If this constitutes the bulk of your defense, I suggest we move on to the opening statements of the prosecution.”

Spinoza stood up, the small man buzzing with the energy of restrained impatience. The eyes of the audience turned with reverence to this unremarkable man. Opening his shabby portfolio only slightly, like a magician trying to conceal the contents of his bag, Spinoza pulled out a sheet of typed paper with his statement.

“Your Honor”, he began, his surprisingly deep voice filling the crowded room, “my statement is simply that the guilty party’s charges as they currently stand are inadequate in proportion to the crimes he has committed, and I wish to prove this to you and the public in attendance.”

The audience uttered a ‘ooo’, the sound of sadistic pleasure in twisting the knife into Weissmann, whose eyes nearly popped out of his head. Judge Advani gently wiped the sweat off her brow with a white handkerchief, and motioned toward Spinoza.

“We now move to the Prosecution making their case”

Without breaking stride, Spinoza continued, “As part of the Holocene Actors of the Former United States Investigation Committee, HAUSIC, we initially performed a more cursory examination of the actions of political actors in simply looking at their voting records on what we deemed were key climate issues. Mr. Andrew Weissmann was flagged based on this criteria, and an extradition warrant was broadcast and picked up by Climate Change Denial Hunters.”

Judge Advani nodded. “Denialhators.”

The crowd erupted in whoops and cheers at the mention of Denialhators. In the eyes of the public, Denialhators were the last true forces of retributive justice in the world. Sneaking through the hostile inland of the Former United States, Denialhators swiftly captured Climate Change Deniers who were now being protected and even having their services retained by whichever Sovereign Corporate-State they sought refuge in. Operating not quite at the behest of the court, but rather in legally-gray cooperation, it was little wonder that there were books, comics, and online orpheums about these quasi-vigilantes.

The speakers overhead once again rang out in protest to quieten the ruckus. Judge Advani slammed her gavel calling for peace. With the room falling to its usual hum, Spinoza continued.

“This leads us to our witness for today, the Denialhator responsible for the capture of Mr. Weissman.”

Judge Advani rose. “I request the bailiff please escort Mr. Jonathan Anifowose”.

The Western corner of the room slammed open and a dark figure strode in. Denialhator Jonathan Ainfowose was flanked by two bailiffs who seemed dwarfed by his presence despite being the same height. His dark skin against an all-black outfit was interrupted by the white fracas of chemical burns on his hands. For whatever embellishments the tales of Denialhators’ daring exploits carried, they were sure to dress the part.

Anifowose materialized in front of the witness stand with perfect practice. He addressed Advani.

“Your Honor”. His voice rang clear and strong.

“Mr. Ainfowose, do you swear by the truth and the truth alone?”

“I do, Your Honor.”

The crowd was far too mesmerized by the appearance of the Denialhator to make a sound. Spinoza began his questioning.

“Mr Jonathan Ainfowose, you are in the practice of being a freelance Climate Change Denial Hunters, or, Denialhator, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. And I personally led the 3-person squad responsible for bringing you Mr. Weissmann in front of you today.” replied Ainfowose.

Spinoza sauntered towards the witness, still clutching his precious portfolio like an extinct marsupial clutching its young. “Tell me, Mr. Ainfowose, what exactly were the circumstances that led to the capture of Mr. Weissmann?”

Anifowose neatly took a sip from the glass of water on his podium, slightly wincing at its warmth. He began, “Although we captured him in the Port of Virginia, in a shipping container headed for Brazil Nova, we zeroed in on Mr. Weissmann in the hostile California Federate. Not the Republic of California of course, whom we recognize as allies.”

“I’m sure most of us here are up to speed on the latest geography, Mr. Ainfowose”, Judge Advani replied wryly.

Anifowose continued. “The California Federate’s current political leadership includes the Metzger family. In the Former United States, they were the owners of an agriculture conglomerate that produced almonds and hoarded water in times of California’s drought. The Metzgers also gave amounts ranging in the hundreds of millions to various organizations, government and NGOs, that preached a Denialist stance. When we tracked down Mr. Weissmann, he was in the personal employ of the Metzgers, specifically working in public addressing. At the risk of conjecture, Your Honor, the propaganda department.”

The bulletproof booth seemed to steam up. Weissmann’s eyes darted at his captor in the stand. He ventured, “Your Honor, it IS conjecture. I simply took the opportunities given to me! I didn’t have the luxury of vetting my emplo-”

The rap of the gavel silenced him at once. “I’m afraid we’re not dealing with cross-examination at the moment, Mr. Weissmann. I suggest you be quiet and allow the witness to finish his statement.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Ainfowose replied. “When we initially captured Mr. Weissmann, we were of course in hostile territory. It made a successful extradition quite difficult. Unfortunately, through the means of some rather dirty tactics-” Anifowose casually waved his scarred hands, “- Mr. Weissmann eluded our capture.”

Everyone was thrilled that this show-trial included a modest retelling of a daring operation from the very lips of a Denialhator, in the flesh. The room continued its respect for the voice of Jonathan Ainfowose with silence.

“My colleagues and I weren’t so quick to give up, however. We were well aware that Denialists have had, in the past and present, channels to smuggle themselves out of the continent whenever they feel the heat drawing in. The Metzgers were content in facilitating the escape of one of their star employees through one of these channels. A contact in Brazil Nova was to escort Mr. Weissmann through the country and into South Argentina. We simply switched strategies, deciding instead to keep eyes on Mr. Weissmann as he was sent across the country and smuggled into Virginia Independent under an assumed name. And, well, thanks to our agreements with the government of Virginia Inde-”

Advani interrupted him. “I’m sorry, an assumed name?”

The Great Ainfowose suddenly seemed almost embarrassed to answer. “Uh yes, Your Honor. Under the name...John Kyoto.”

The audience burst into laughter. Even Judge Advani broke a smirk as she rapped her gavel. “Mr. Ainfowose, please proceed.”

Clearing his throat, Ainfowose continued. “Thanks to our agreements with Virginia Independent, we were able to corner and capture Mr. Weissmann with minimal effort.”

Reinvigorated, Spinoza spoke. “Thank you Mr. Ainfowose. Mr. Weissmann’s track-and-capture report came across my desk and I was immediately curious by the nature of his history. A supposedly minor congressman fleeing political upheaval in his state is one thing, but to immediately land a rather cushy job within CalFed’s political elite?”

Spinoza looked at Advani. The Judge had relaxed a bit now, and replied with the air of banter between old friends.

“I’m certainly interested in the implications of this finding, Mr. Spinoza. Does this tell us something about the accused’s career?”

“I decided to trace Mr. Weissmann’s career back, which proved rather difficult. You see, Your Honor, a lot of his work was based around the internet. Back when an individual could pretty much have their face show up on every connected device across the planet. A pretty easy place for someone with an interest in spreading certain propaganda.”

The Internet.

It was a distant memory for most in the room, and nothing but a story for some. Sure, every nation had its own intranet, and access terminals for its citizens. But in a hostile world that had long since experienced complete communication breakdown, the Internet hearkened back to an era where there was still a level of camaraderie among the human race. Enough at least, to allow for relatively free exchange of culture, pornography, and disinformation across the planet. Computer communication across geographic divides were now mainly done through satellites; largely for political and military exchange, and certainly not for frivolously sharing photos of the day’s rations.

When things “fell apart”, as some describe it, nearly everything that made up the bulk of the internet was lost in many ways, whether the data centers they were housed in were destroyed, or simply cut off from the world, never to see the light of day. But things weren’t completely hopeless for the most determined.

“The Internet, Mr. Spinoza?” Advani's relaxed attitude evaporated. “Surely you’re not suggesting you’ve somehow recovered traces of Mr. Weissmann’s internet-housed work...”

Spinoza rifled through his portfolio once again, this time dropping it to the floor as he pulled out his prize; a small flash drive shaped like an old superhero.

“The popularity of Mr. Weissmann as a figure on the internet,” Spinoza breathed excitedly, “contrasted with his rather acerbic way of expressing himself meant a fan following obsessed with backing up his work due to fears of censorship. Of course, all that really did was give us quite a win in tracking down private citizens who still kept archives for their own strange historical projects.”

Weissmann looked ready to faint. No one, especially not him, expected this brick from the wall of humanity’s collective graffiti. Spinoza waved towards the bailiffs standing by Anifowose. One of them plucked the flash drive from Spinoza’s sweaty hand, and ran off to find the courtroom computer terminal. The other examined a rather dusty set of buttons on the wall before settling on one. A novel sound was heard throughout the room and the crowd looked around in confusion before realizing its source; a yellowed projection screen slowly descending, buzzing and groaning, to the left of a rather alarmed-looking Judge Advani.

“Mr. Spinoza, I would appreciate the heads-up on when we decide to add a multi-media component to these proceedings,” she said sternly, patting off the dust and cobwebs released by the screen.

“My apologies, your Honor,” Spinoza replied mechanically, “but I would like to present to you my case for Mr. Weissmann’s increased charges.”

The ancient projector in the ceiling began to whine. The cooling fans spat out even more dust all over the courtroom, caking onto the perspiration of an increasingly displeased Advani.

The room slowly descended into dimness, illuminated only by the harsh white of the blank projection. Spinoza pulled out a small remote from his pocket and pressed on. “Here’s a small sample of Mr. Weissmann's first decade of writing.”, he declared.

A series of slides with snippets of headlines appeared, with the author “Andrew Powell Weissmann” clearly noted under them. They screamed the most infuriating rhetoric in the most obnoxious manner: “Chill Out? Yet Another Climate Change Hoax Revealed!”, “So-Called Global Warming...A Chinese Invention?”, “Sorry Liberals, But Climate Change Is Still Bullshit”.

“Of course,” Spinoza said gleefully, “when it was evident that the man-made Holocene is real and here to stay, he decided to...switch gears.” Spinoza clicked the remote.

The screen continued to display more snippets. “Climate Change? Bad News For Refugees, Great News For The Economy”, “Warmer Seas means More Shipping Routes, Means More Stuff For Cheap!”, “No, I Don’t Care About Climate Panic, and Neither Should You.”

Judge Advani turned to Weissmann. “Do you admit to writing these articles, Mr. Weissmann?”

“I think there’s some important context missing in presenting these, your Honor,” began Weissmann, but a sharp gavel cut him short.

“This is a yes-or-no question Mr. Weissmann. Did you write all this?”

Weissmann bowed his head. “Yes, your Honor.”

“Allow me to provide the context Mr. Weissmann desperately wants, your Honor,” Spinoza interjected. “The accused largely wrote for Vanguard USA, an outlet with a strong Denialist stance on Climate Change. An outlet whose primary financier wasn’t its subscribers, but rather the likes of Dulox Oil, Imperial Petroleum, and...the Metzger foundation.”

But Spinoza wasn’t finished. “Of course, your honor,” he said, “for those who didn’t read, there were plenty of broadcasts and interviews to further that rhetoric. There is one appearance of Mr. Weissmann that really caught my eye.”

He clicked his remote and the screen displayed a still from a video; a bald, bearded man wearing headphones, speaking emphatically into a microphone.

“The Rob Danson Hour was a widely-viewed internet talk show,” said Spinoza, “supposedly about wrestling, but really about subjecting guests of many backgrounds and...opinions, to the host’s rather eccentric interviewing style. Mr. Weissmann was given a chance, really, a full hour, to really go in-depth on his denialist stance. Allow me to show your Honor and the audience a sample.”

The still frame came to life, as the slightly sunburned and lively Danson began to speak.

“So Andrew, I don’t know, I’m just hearing all kinds of stuff about climate ch- global warm- sorry, which is it? I’m never sure. I know that there *are* a lot of scientists, government scientists, who agree that it-”

“Let me interrupt you there, Rob.” the camera now cut to a boyish, boorish young face framed by a large pair of headphones. It was Andrew Powell Weissmann: thirty years younger, with a smug, confident air that almost seemed alien to the trembling old man in the glass booth.

“There are scientists who SAY that climate change is real, a threat, whatever, right? But WHO do they work for? Whose agenda do they follow? We aren’t asking ourselves, who stands to benefit if we’re gonna put the world on economic lockdown like they want?”

“Right, right,” nodded Rob, getting ready to light up a rather large joint. “Every message has hidden intentions, shit like that?”

“Exactly!” the Young Weissmann leaned back on his chair, playing with his headphones’ cord. “Let me tell you Rob...I know who stands to gain in this situation. Let me tell you bro. China. Shadow bankers. Y’know, parties, people who are just desperate to see America fall. People call me a conspiracy theorist but man, we all know who our enemies are, right?”

Rob exhaled smoothly and extended his arm out of the frame to pass the joint. “I can see your argument. Makes sense to me. But of course I gotta ask. What if you’re wrong? What if there is climate change, things get hotter, all the doomsday stuff the scientists talk about?”

Young Weissmann chuckled, clouds of smoke shooting out. “Well man, what can I tell ya? At worst? You’ll be wearing shorts for an extra month every year! But the best part of course is -” he waved his joint to create a ring of smoke trail, “- we’re gonna be seeing a whole new lotta strains bro. I mean we’re talkin’ outdoor pot farming all year long. It’s gonna be great news if you love to smoke up!”

The two began to laugh and Spinoza hit pause.

“This really is the kind of Denialism we love to see, isn’t it? It’s easy to be so blase about things when you know you’ve got a safety net waiting for you at the bottom of the burning tower.” Spinoza turned his back to the Judge, and looked at the crowd.

“Even if it meant dooming the rest of us.”

The audience broke apart. Some burst into tears, others stood silent and fuming. There were some howls of anger and anguish. The realization hit them that the man in the glass booth wasn’t just someone to be flogged for catharsis, but had very much been a primary driver in the destruction of their future.

The Judge made quick use of her gavel to restore order again. “Mr. Spinoza, I fully agree with your assertions. I would appreciate, however, if you didn’t rile up the public. We aren’t trying to create a mob here.”

Quick as a counterpoint, several shots rang out through the courtroom. Weissmann’s booth received several new scars, and he some newly-burst eardrums. Spinoza stood frozen, deer in the headlights at the audience. He hadn’t yet noticed the bleeding gash on his leg from one of the ricocheting bullets. Anifowose and a bailiff quickly ran to lead him out to a medic.

The back door of the courtroom burst open as several guards armed with batons and tasers cut through the crowd, honing in on the would-be assassin. The crowd had cleared around the shabby young man, holding above his head what looked to be a crude, 3D printed home-made gun. He was tackled and swept out of the room in a matter of seconds.

The excitement of the assassin now, the audience turned towards Weissmann. He leaned on the side of his booth, clutching his chest, panting heavily. Judge Advani, who had watched this entire scene unfold with a steely gaze, was unimpressed.

“Mr. Weissmann, your medical alert monitor hasn’t gone off. You can stop the theatrics so we can proceed with your sentencing.”

Almost on cue, Weissmann sat back on his chair. Disheveled and sweaty, but very much alive. He gazed at Judge Advani, trying to find her last bit of sympathy to appeal to.

“Mr. Weissmann. You were originally meant to be sentenced only on the basis of your congressional voting record. However, your decision to dispute this has allowed the prosecution to gather evidence of additional crimes. In light of what Mr. Spinoza presented, I have decided to charge you with...’wilfully dispelling misinformation on climate change from a wide-reaching public platform’...”

"Conspiring to harm the People by way of aiding and abetting the wills of Denialists in Power"

"Attempting to evade arrest and justice"

“On the basis of granting a speedy trial, we will concatenate the additional charges into your sentence Tier. The court finds you guilty, and sentences you to twenty years in the Tier 3 State Convict Labor Force.”

Advani smiled widely. “Coincidentally, they’re currently on a mission to fight the fires of Brazil Nova. Looks like you’ll be making your ship after all, Mr. Weissmann.”

Weissman screamed, and cussed, and yelled, and begged, in complete silence to his audience, the mic for his soundproof booth cut off. The people watched as the red-faced, snotty mess of a man was dragged out of his enclosure.

-----

Judge Advani looked outside the window of her electric cab, and was greeted with darkness. Another blackout had claimed the night life of the city once again.

To what end? she thought to herself, staring at trails of light from passing cars. Her nerves, and excitement, and cathartic satisfaction had been sated today. But now, hours later, she was riding down from the high.

She was struck with an awful feeling of futility. None of what she did matter today. Sentencing a criminal like Weissmann to his demise didn’t ease the current condemnation of humankind. The theater of the day only gave a stimulus of short-lived hope for people to keep pushing on.

Everything was still in ruin.

Tomorrow, she was to go back to sentencing petty crimes, committed out of need and desperation. A task she normally processed with almost mindless automation. Suddenly, the thought of doing this made her feel sick. To her very core. To her very being.