A low, constant electric tension vibrates through the air. Holographic figures fill the stadium-style seating, thousands stacked in tiered rows like a digital colosseum. Each one glitchlessly still. Perfect ghosts. The courtroom is larger than I expected.

  In 2221, humans still pretend that justice matters. The Unified World Tribunal sits high within a vertical city, nestled inside one of Earth’s last remaining Reserves, a safe zone with a skyline of glass towers stacked like teeth beneath a solar-harvesting dome. Inside, the courtroom is blinding. Sterile sunlight filters through the geodesic shell overhead and refracts across mirrored panels, flooding every surface with clinical brightness. The air is cool and scrubbed. Every surface is smooth and immaculate, from the white polymer floors to the chrome fixtures and the backlit glass walls that pulse faintly with scrolling data. The ceiling rises into a honeycomb of solar prisms and surveillance lenses. A thousand eyes.

  So this is AI’s vision of justice.

  At the center, the testimony platform gleams like an operating table. No wood. No warmth. Just transparent surfaces and embedded sensors. No trace of human craftsmanship.

  This isn’t a courtroom. It’s a lab.

  I'm cold in my thin white jumpsuit. The synthetic fibers itch nearly as much as the shackles chafing my wrists. They didn’t let me bathe. My hair clings to my cheeks, greasy and static-charged, carrying the sour scent of confinement.

  Murmurs ripple through the chamber like wind over dry leaves. Above us, a massive digital clock counts down. One minute to go.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I can only see this ending in one of three ways. If I’m ruled human and guilty, I’ll vanish into the wasteland of Mars’s penal colony. If they decide I’m not quite human but the property of Virarx, I’ll be returned to the cell I just left for “containment.” I’ll be dissected, replicated, and weaponized. Then there’s one fate no one seems willing to say out loud. If I’m ruled non-human, a threat to humankind, I’ll be deleted. Maybe even scrapped for parts before being launched unceremoniously into the void.

  My stomach knots. In nearly two centuries of life, I’ve never stood before a judge.

  “All rise,” the Bailiff announces.

  The room shifts—an elegant choreography of avatars and projections straightening in sync.

  “The Unified World Tribunal is now in session. The Honorable Justice P1-L8 presiding.”

  The Chief Justice emerges from a shadowed corridor. He’s a squat man pushing eighty, with a chin sagging into a wattle that folds into his neck, like a turkey’s. Huh. I don’t think I’ve seen a turkey in over a hundred years. He raises one hand. Instantly, everyone settles into their virtual seats. He ascends to the high bench. Artificial light glints off the bald dome of his head, framed by two tufts of white hair curled protectively around his ears.

  He turns to a metallic cube embedded in the bench. Its green light blinks. He gives a slight nod in response. Oh, that’s the court reporter.

  He begins.

  “Welcome, representatives of the Seven Sectors, public observers, counsel for the defense and prosecution, and all participants joining across the networked globe,” he intones. “Today, this Tribunal convenes for Case No. HRC-2221-02-01: Human Rights Coalition v. Virarx Sector, concerning the legal classification of 3V3-R17 as either human or intellectual property.”

  In conversation, 3V3-R17 becomes Everly. A soft concession to a bygone era when names were given by people, not assigned by AI birth agents on a manufacture date from the cradle of an artificial womb. Names are chosen by the wearer now, not bestowed.

  “It is not lost on me that this case carries profound implications for our shared humanity, our legal systems, and the future of life itself. This proceeding will be conducted with solemnity and full transparency. It is being transmitted to all planetary sectors and archived for the public record.”

  “Counsel, please present your opening statements.”

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  A tall, symmetrical blonde woman steps forward and faces the gallery. My jurors.

  “Blessed Observers, I am F8-31H,” Faith says, “and I am honored to represent the Human Rights Coalition in this unprecedented case.

  “Today, you must confront a question no court has faced before: Is Everly a living, breathing person, or merely a shell augmented and overwritten beyond recognition and subject to the proprietary rights of her creators?

  “Our evidence will show that Everly, despite the nanotechnological alterations to her body, retains the essential qualities of personhood. She feels. She remembers. She makes her own choices. She is not a machine. Not a product. She is a human soul, imprisoned under corporate claim.

  “You will hear testimony from experts, historians, and Everly herself that reveals a continuous thread of consciousness and identity stretching nearly two centuries.

  “We ask this Tribunal to affirm what should be undeniable. Personhood transcends biology and birthright. To deny Everly her humanity would be to deny the core of our shared values.

  “We do not ask for pardon. We ask for recognition. Hold Everly accountable not as property, but as a human being. One who must answer for the destruction, deception, and deaths that shadow her past.

  “Thank you.”

  Human and free, but punishable.

  Faith returns to her seat across the stage. The chamber buzzes like a hive of angry bees as they anticipate the drama to follow. Do any of them remember the bees? No. The bees are long gone…

  Virarx’s counsel takes his time, smooths his collar, and strides to the platform with measured confidence. Hands folded behind his back, he waits for silence. He’s just as tall as Faith, but with darker features and a roughness that suggests this isn’t his first confrontation. The room quiets, save for soft mechanical background hums.

  The Virarx counsel steps forward, dark eyes sweeping across the room as if cataloging every observer. He nods once to the tribunal bench and begins.

  “Blessed Observers, I am D4-9L,” says Daniel, “representing Virarx in this matter of legal misclassification.”

  He pauses, voice cool and controlled.

  “Let us be clear—this is not a murder trial. This is a classification hearing. And classification is governed not by sentiment, but by law.”

  He steps closer to the jury projections, right to the edge of the stage, and points a long finger at me.

  “Do not be deceived by this entity. Everly is not a mere woman. She is not the survivor the HRC claims her to be. She is a post-biological construct, built by proprietary nanotechnological frameworks originally designed by ViraRx Therapeutics, our predecessors.

  “These microscopic systems do not merely enhance; they replace. Replace cells. Replace systems. Her blood, her bones, even her thoughts have been interfaced, overwritten, and regulated by adaptive code. The human substrate is gone. What remains is a product of corporate innovation.

  “The question is not whether she feels, remembers, or performs selfhood. The question is: who owns the mechanisms that allow her to do so?”

  He turns slightly toward me, but not meeting my eyes, then back to the sea of observers.

  “Virarx seeks neither punishment nor pity. We seek legal clarity. A determination that what our ancestors created, what we maintain, is not a person with sovereign rights, but intellectual property under rightful corporate stewardship. There is no soul here to save or condemn. Only circuitry to classify.

  Ouch.

  “Thank you.”

  He bows slightly to the bench and returns to his seat. The gallery is silent. The background hums are deafening in my ears alone.

  Justice P1-L8 nods to Faith. “Counsel, you may call your first witness.”

  “The Human Rights Coalition calls 3V3-R17 to the stand,” Faith responds.

  The Bailiff approaches and disables the electromagnetic field immobilizing my legs. He motions for me to follow, but my knees wobble beneath me. Even though it was only a short time, my legs feel like jelly after the digital cast is gone.

  God, I miss strawberry jelly. And peanut butter! When was the last time I thought about peanut butter…?

  I shuffle toward the witness stand and take my seat.

  Above my head, a sophisticated array emits soft pulses, running enhanced polygraph scans through my augmented nervous system. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly.

  Just my entire existence, laid bare for judgment. No big deal.

  “Cognitive Integrity Scanner is engaged and operational,” says the Squat Judge. “Counsel, you may proceed.”

  Faith returns to the platform and walks to the central podium, facing me directly. She offers a warm, rehearsed smile. She leans on the podium toward me with casually crossed arms.

  “Everly, what is your manufacture date?”

  A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. “I was born February 2nd, 2022.”

  Gasps ripple through the holographic gallery.

  “That would make you 199 years old,” Faith says.

  “Correct.” Congrats, your Neuralynk can do basic arithmetic. Your generation wouldn’t be able to function without those AI overlords, I mean “assistants”, whispering in your neural implants.

  Faith presses on. “According to Virarx records, you underwent nanotechnological augmentation. Please explain to the Court, from the beginning, the circumstances of this treatment.”

  My palms are sweaty. My knees are weak and still half-jello. My arms are heavy. I’ve carried this weight far too long.

  I guess this is my one shot. I can tell my truth before they erase me.

  I clear my throat.

  “Fine. But the beginning doesn’t start with 3V3-R17. It starts with Mia Alden. And if you’re going to judge me, you need to know her first.”