//------------------------------// // Chapter VIII: Defenseless // Story: PRAT // by Integral Archer //------------------------------// Her first thought was that her leg had been afflicted by a sudden paralysis and the high school’s roof was leaking onto it. But when she turned and looked, it was just her little lawyer, who had grabbed her hoof with both of his fore ones, and was now showering it in a passionate flurry of kisses. “Princess!” he said between gasps. “Princess . . . Princess . . . how kind of you to come!” “Well, how sweet,” said she, a pleasant tingle, the pleasure of sincere adulation, running from her hoof, up her leg, and through her spine. “You see, sister,”—turning to her—“lawyers, contrary to what you believe, are not just verbosity and slime. Sometimes they can feel real, genuine emotion.” “Aye,” responded she. “Have you ever considered marrying a changeling, Esquire? I have no doubt it would be a very satisfying relationship.” “Don’t mind Princess Luna,” said the elder. “She’s usually groggy this time of day. But, believe it or not, I’m here now only because of her. I wasn’t planning on coming, but she convinced me to see the case to the end.” “Is that so!” chirped Due Process, rising with a grin that made Princess Luna’s stomach churn. He made a few gallant strides toward her. “Therefore, I can have nothing but affection and tenderness toward her.” “Don’t touch me!” shrieked she, slapping away his hoof. A quick flick of Princess Celestia’s eyelids was the only thing that prevented Due Process from getting impaled by a score of spears a millisecond later, hurled at him from a bevy of Royal Guards. “Well, I say!” said Due Process, leaping back, but his stupid grin never wavering for a second. “Sister!” Princess Celestia said with a tone of the most regal reproach, that was neither quite a yell nor completely congenial to the atmosphere of a drawing room—a one-word rebuke, a princess’s rebuke. “Ignore her. She’s not a morning pony. But she promised to be on her best behavior. Isn’t that right, dear sister?” “Only under the condition,” hissed she under her breath, “that he would be on his.” “I swear, Princess,” cooed the little lawyer, “I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what I’ve done to incur your mistrust.” The defendant and her lawyer took their seats in front of the stage. Princess Luna stood pressed against the wall on the other side of the room, fixing a glare upon the lawyer. He collected his papers, whispered something to Princess Celestia, and turned, for an instant, to meet Princess Luna’s glare, to which he responded with a wink, adding in a quick lick of his lips for good measure. He chuckled to himself when, from across the room, he could see her shuddering in revulsion. “What exactly did your sister say to get you to come?” “She mentioned your dexterity at handling the premier of Quebuck. I was too glad to be rid of him that I didn’t notice what you did with him afterward. Without her pointing out that you changed his mind on the separation issue—something we all thought to be impossible—I wouldn’t have come, since the outcome of this Tribunal is a foregone conclusion.” “Your Majesty, in law, nothing is a foregone conclusion. We will demonstrate why the discrimination your School showed was not illegal discrimination. To this end, we will prove—" “So the law makes provisions for one to legally discriminate?” “That’s correct. There are many grounds on which a legal person is legally allowed to discriminate, but race isn’t one of them. But even if a discrimination is on the basis of a protected attribute, you can defend with the assertion that it’s a bona fide occupational requirement, which is an attribute that is necessary to perform the job. For example, the weather factory in Cloudsdale can legally refuse employment to earth ponies and unicorns, since those races are not physically capable of performing the tasks that need to be done. But the claim of a bona fide occupational requirement is a defense, not a right; therefore, the onus is on you to prove it applies to you.” “The onus is on me, the accused, to prove that my organization and its practices are legitimate?” “That’s correct.” “That seems quite contrary to all the legal principles of a civilized society.” “I know! It’s awful!” Due Process pursed his lips and looked away. The room was particularly conducive to echoes; his shrill outburst bounced back to him, and he could hear the tones of a pain he had long endeavored to keep hidden. He flattened his ears and said, almost in a whisper: “Your Majesty, I got into law, because . . . well, you see, I always wanted to go into some STEM field, but I always struggled in the maths and sciences. I tried—I studied my flank off—but I was always mediocre at best. While my schoolmates were angsting over whether or not he or she even noticed him or her, I was angsting over the fact that I was terrible at what I knew what supposed to be my calling. But then I was taught in my civics class about the legal process: about how laws are made, how they’re interpreted, how they’re enforced—and I was overjoyed, because not only had we managed to turn the passing of judgement and the condemnation of our fellow creatures into a science, it was a science that I understood. And what a solemn science! The objectivity, the formal language, the adherence to standards and precedents, the solemnity of it all—the solemnity of justice. But it was around the time of my third year at UCan when I finally realized: if law had ever been about the administration of justice, it is no longer; it has been turned into a tool to serve whatever political ideas happen to be popular at the time. By the time I realized it was all politics, it was too late to go into engineering.” Princess Celestia laughed; there was the sound of patronization in it, of an adult amused at the reasoning of a child—it literally ruffled Due Process’s feathers. “My dear,” said she, “I’ve lived a lot longer than you have, and have been through all the phases of life a pony can go through—a thousand times over. May I guess how you’re feeling? You’ve spent your whole life growing, enduring struggles you never wanted or asked for, yet you’ve conquered them one after the other, thinking that one day you’d reach a point when you could define your own life and seize one, or a million, of the routes that this world promised were possible. But reaching the age of majority, having attained full autonomy over your life and future, you’ve found that all those paths have coalesced into one. You feel that all your choices, which should have been yours by right, have all been taken away, and there’s now this crushing sense of permanence about your life. Does that sound about right?” Due Process pretended not to have heard her. He shuffled the papers on the table in front of him in an attempt to conceal the sound of the grinding of his teeth. The princess’s description of his feelings had been a little too accurate. He blushed, feeling that he was standing naked before her. “It’s not too late to choose a different path,” she said. “You’re still young; you still have the ability to learn and do anything you want. All you have to do is make a choice.” Due Process scoffed. He had heard the bromide a million times before; he was able to see past the sugary coating of a princess’s sweet voice. “You continually complain, Your Majesty,” said he, “about how you have no time for yourself. Have you ever considered not being a princess? It’s not too late for you to find something new. Everything you said about me is true for you too—more so, in fact, since you have many more years on this earth than I.” She sighed and shook her head, chuckling softly to herself. Due Process knew exactly what she was going to say next, and he knew exactly why she was wrong. Yet he could not stand the patronizing laugh, the haughty way she smiled at him, the way she always carried herself with a supercilious air, as perhaps an omnipotent being would were it to take the form of a mortal for a period of time; for he saw now that, in this particular issue, her certainty was completely unfounded, that her bearing was, and had always been, just a princess’s veneer, seemingly substantial but really just a varnish. In that moment, he fully resented her with that pleasurable hate one feels in one’s certainty that the object of his damnation deserves it. “It’s different for me,” she said. “I have to be princess.” “No, you don’t,” he shot back. “If you really hated it, you would abdicate. You wouldn’t be the first sovereign to do that, and you wouldn’t be the last.” “The Constitution has no provision for me to abdicate.” “Make one.” “Constitutional amendments can be effected only by and with the advice and consent of Parliament.” “Just leave, then. They can’t force you to be princess.” “Then Parliament is left without any power and our government collapses.” “If history is any indication, Parliament and the courts would just create a legal fiction in order to operate without you.” He smirked. “Really, Your Majesty, with all the powers your title vests you with, with all the influence in the various spheres you’ve dealt with in your long reign, are you really going to try to tell me that you seriously believe you could not find a way to retire if you really wanted to?” Princess Celestia looked away. At that moment, spectators and the press were entering the auditorium, talking loudly with each other. Due Process thought that she listened to the din of their rough voices’ exchanging idle observations with something approaching wistfulness. “I’ve thought about it before,” she said at length. “I still think about it sometimes. But no matter from what angle I’ve considered it, I keep arriving at the same conclusion: my first conscious memory is a voice telling me that I was a princess. Everything in my childhood was so structured to be conducive to my becoming a princess. All the rest of my long, long years I’ve spent being nothing but a princess, thinking only the thoughts of a princess, breathing as only a princess is permitted to breathe. If I stopped being a princess . . . what would I do? What value could I provide to anypony, to myself? What new skill could I pick up? I’m so old, my fluid intelligence is basically zero at this point. Even supposing I could learn something else, it would take a lot of time of study before I would even be able to know if it was something worth pursuing further. And if it wasn’t, what would I study next? The skills of a princess are not exactly easily transferable.” Due Process picked up his papers and slapped them on the table to align them with each other; Princess Celestia knew that he was using the sound of the sheets against the wood in lieu of a snort. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “now you know why I’m still a lawyer.” The commissioners appeared onstage without any announcement, and the crowd went silent. Due Process noted with not a small amount of satisfaction that they no longer tried to preempt their entrance with a shout of “all rise.” The commissioners took their seats. They did not speak immediately, but made the motions of busy ponies who had been hastily called away from some very important business for some impertinent matter: Affirmative Action sipped at her water; Radical Reformer was scribbling some notes, but looked down every so often to glance at her toes, for she had had to cut an expensive hooficure short to make the hearing on time, and her mind was occupied with the fear that the aborted procedure was horribly salient on her person; Petty Nicety did nothing but glare at Due Process, as if in indignation of his impertinence to show up. “Where were we?” said Petty Nicety with a sigh that was taken up and repeated by her two colleagues. She had not even bothered to read the case number for the record. “I wish to make an opening statement for the defense,” said he. The three commissioners groaned. “All right,” said Petty Nicety, waving a hoof at him as at a particularly sycophantic butler. “Go ahead.” Due Process rose. “As I stated a few weeks ago,” he said, in the flat monotone of performing a duty one has once loved but now loathes. He paused, did a double take, and went on. Nopony noticed the pause except Princess Celestia; the look he had shot her was a glare. “As I stated a few weeks ago,” he repeated, “my client does not dispute the facts as described by the complainant. But what will now be demonstrated that the requirement of being a unicorn, as a prerequisite for a student’s matriculation into the School for Gifted Unicorns, is, and could have been nothing other than, a bona fide occupational requirement. But, before I adduce the evidence, I’d like to begin with a demonstration. May I ask Mr. Hearty Bucks to come up here, please?” “What for?” said Petty Nicety. “I’d like to see him perform a levitation spell.” The audience murmured. “What for?” repeated Petty Nicety. Due Process plucked a feather from his wing and held it up. “At the School for Gifted Unicorns, levitation, especially on a light object, is less than a prerequisite for the admission interview:; levitating multiple things is just one of the many steps required to perform just one of the spells. The defense asserts that Mr. Hearty Bucks was refused an interview not because of any illegal discrimination, but because it would’ve simply been a waste of time to schedule an interview that would’ve gone nowhere. But right here, right now, in the presence of the world and the Tribunal, Mr. Hearty Bucks has the opportunity to prove the Princess of Equestria wrong. All he has to do is levitate a feather.” “What Mr. Due Process is requesting is illegal,” said Res Judicata. “Hearty Bucks is a minor and is therefore unable to represent himself in any capacity.” “All I want is for him to levitate a feather.” “Modern jurisprudence dictates that any action he would or wouldn’t be perform would be inadmissible,” said Res Judicata. Due Process was too taken aback by Res Judicata’s implication that, even after everything they’d seen from the Tribunal, modern jurisprudence would have any relevance here to formulate a response. Ignoring her, he said: “Commissioners, will you please ask Hearty Bucks to cooperate? He wouldn’t even have to get out of his seat.” “This proves nothing.” said Res Judicata. “Regardless of whether he did or did not have the knowledge to do so, he would be unable at this present moment. Interviews, as I’m sure you know, require a nontrivial amount of preparation.” Even before the commissioners broke from their huddle, Due Process knew their answer. “Hearty Bucks has both his lawyer and his mother representing him,” said Petty Nicety. “They, and they alone, can speak for him. Any questions you have can be directed to them, but anything Hearty Bucks himself says or does is not admissible in this Tribunal.” Due Process sat back down and pursued that line of argumentation no further. Nopony seemed to mind that that specific question was dropped. The commissioners were silent with a particular kind of smugness, which seemed to him to be that of those who relish in setting the terms to a game and swiftly defeating any of those who try their hooves at it. * No wonder, thought Princess Luna, that so many politicians were former lawyers: the art of extending an argument so that its very length, the abstruse, esoteric terminology, and its impossibility to follow hide its hollowness was a very transferable skill. Due Process’s prolixity and volubility hid the fact that he was saying nothing. He cited laws, precedents, documents from the School, and spoke at great length, and incomprehensibly, about each one. At times, Princess Luna thought that Res Judicata, the commissioners, or even the audience, would object, calling him out on his circumlocution and obfuscation. But, to her great surprise, not only did they not offer any interruption to the somnolent drawl of his incomprehensible words, but the commissioners even nodded thoughtfully, Res Judicata made notes and watched his speech without any of the condescension in her bearing as she had shown during her presentation of the facts, and even the audience had stopped their jeers at his arguments. She knew what he was doing; it was a tactic which had been used by demagogues and dictators throughout history when they were unable to appeal to their listeners’ reason: make your speech so long, make your arguments so convoluted, avoid defining too clearly the subject, such that not one among your listeners will have the courage to speak up lest he reveal his supposed lack of erudition. Throughout the proceedings she fought the urge to cry that the emperor had no clothes. Her sister had always called her paranoid, and so had a psychiatrist or two throughout the years. Through experience, aided by countless social encounters, many hours spent in meditative repose, many reprimands, and a very long sabbatical on another celestial body, she had eventually learned to, if not completely suppress the voice, at least recognize it for what it was and choose not to heed it. But the spectacle of the brilliant mind of Schopenhoofer forced to contemplate the irrational and the arbitrary was an enormity so monstrous that Princess Luna could not explain its existence in any other way but a cruel, deliberate attempt to test her resolve. Age had distended Schopenhoofer’s abdomen. He had walked to the stand with a slight limp. Only the confidence of his movement gave the hint of a suggestion that once the body had been athletic. He was unremarkable in appearance, almost slovenly. But his stern, gaunt features, the eyes that fixed every object they landed on with the intensity of a raptor, the wrinkles that contracted and smoothed with the undulations of his thoughts, gave the unmistakable indication of the fact that whatever wear age had wreaked on his body, there had been an equal and opposite strengthening of his mind. Throughout the questioning, Schopenhoofer, from his place, peered over his spectacles, his brow furrowed as if in contemplation, his nostrils curled as if in understanding of the abhorrent nature of what was taking place before him. “Dr. Schopenhoofer, could you briefly state your occupation?” said Due Process. “I am ze professor of ze pheelozophy class fur Princess Ceelestia’s School fur Geefted Unicorns,” he said flatly, turning his glare on the little lawyer. Due Process gulped. Though Schopenhoofer was half his size and three times his age, Due Process could not shake the belief that he could easily leap up from the stand and snap him two, and only an enormous effort of the professor’s will was what was holding him back. He had refused to meet the lawyer to go over the his answers to the questions that would be put, saying: “I vill speek ze truth. Ze truth eez alvays ze same.” “Dr. Schopenhoofer,” said Due Process, and then paused, turning away. In Schopenhoofer’s face, he had seen that Schopenhoofer knew for what purpose he had been dragged away from his research and teachings, knew why exactly it was shameful, and was openly damning him for it. A few months ago, Due Process would have thought it unthinkable to drag such a mind as Schopenhoofer’s into such insolent proceedings and to subject it with the impertinent line of questioning he had planned. He took a breath. Somewhere, lurking beneath the stress, anxiety, and self-consciousness, he heard the echo of a painful memory: Didn’t you pay attention in our history of law class? De facto, not de jure, is what matters. It is the only thing that has ever mattered. Law exists to support the way things are done, not the other way around. Do you understand? He shook his head, trying to unravel the knot that was building up in his chest. As he pulled at it, to his dismay he found that it grew only tighter. He tried to chase it away with another memory: Do what effects results, not what is factually correct. He didn’t remember who had told him that; he remembered only that, as a colt, when he was given this piece of wisdom, he remembered experiencing an anger he had not the mind or vocabulary to define. Now, in that moment, in the eyes of the princesses, the PRAT, Res Judicata, and Dr. Schopenhoofer, he was beginning to see. He sensed that the Due Process of today was not the Due Process of a few months ago. He knew that a pony must change; he had never expected to remain the same, but he didn’t like the direction that change was headed. “Dr. Schopenhoofer,” he said, pushing away all doubts and operating more or less automatically according to the plan he had, beforehand, decided was the best course of action. “How long have you been employed by the defendant’s school?” “Ten yearz now.” “Could you describe, for the benefit of this tribunal, a general overview of your duties as an employee?” “I teach ze small unicorns.” Due Process paused, as if waiting for Schopenhoofer to continue, but the earth pony just glared back at him. Schopenhoofer was completely convinced the answer had been sufficient. “Which classes?” he prodded. “Ze pheelozophy and natural zience ones, so zat includes Eentroduction to Eepistomology, Lawjeek fur Majeecal Uzers, Fundamental Metaphyeesics fur Mages, Phyeesiks, and . . .” He wrinkled his nose. “You know, ze entire curreeculum eez publicly available knowledge, veech includes who teeches vhat.” Due Process smirked, half-expecting the stodgy old professor to be shot down from above with an “answer the questions as asked, please!” bellowed with officious glee from the commissioners. But all he heard in the ensuing silence was a scoff, and, from way in the back, what seemed to be a princessly snort. As angry as he was, he couldn’t help admiring Princess Luna’s ability to communicate her displeasure from across the room with nothing more than respiration. “What’s your relationship like with your employer?” “I teech material that I specialize een to ze brighteest of ze nation’s cheeldren. Ze pay eez gud; I get lots of vacation time; and, I zink, most eemportant, I don’t have to deal weet unions. Her Majesty doesn’t deal wit zose Schweine.” A warm, subdued laugh rippled through the audience. Princess Celestia watched her teacher with the satisfied look of one who has chosen whom to trust well. To the laypony, it looked as if the questioning were going well; only Due Process and Res Judicata knew how detrimental that comment was to the image of the School. Schopenhoofer, for all his penetration, had apparently forgotten—or, perhaps, deliberately remembered—that the Labor Party had won a majority government in the most recent federal election. “I meant . . . well, you see, Dr. Schopenhoofer,” stammered Due Process, “I meant more along the lines of . . . how is the atmosphere of the workplace environment?” Dr. Schopenhoofer rolled his eyes. “Ze leetel pony makes ze sounds of language witzout understanding meaning. He eez more parrot than pony.” “Please speak up, Dr. Schopenhoofer,” said Petty Nicety. “Oh, I am zorry.” And straightening up, he folded his hooves on the podium in front of him, and grinned like an eager schoolboy. “Please repeat and rephraze, zir. I am afraid I deed not understand.” Due Process gulped. “I mean to ask . . . well, you see, Dr. Schopenhoofer . . . can you speak as to the . . . hospitality—or, rather, the effort—the School makes at accommodating its employees.” “Accommodate?” said Schopenhoofer. “Vell, let me see . . . zhere are vheelchair ramps, elevators . . .” “Are there accommodations for earth ponies, like yourself?” “I, and all ze other earth ponies that hires the school, need no accommodations. Ve are not exactly disabled.” “You teach philosophy and the natural sciences, as you’ve said. Why don’t you teach any of the magic classes?” Schopenhoofer puckered his brow at him, as if unable to believe that language could be used to convey a concept so utterly self-refuting that it could hardly be called a thought. “I am not . . . phyeesically able to.” “And why is that?” Just when Schopenhoofer was about to deliver the logical, exculpating result, a voice, coming from a single source at the back of the crowd, yet so loud and solemn that it seemed to issue from every single point of the auditorium at once, shaking the walls of the school and the entrails of the spectators, bellowed: “Insolence!” Everypony turned to see whence had come the voice, and were shocked—but hardly surprised—to see that it was Princess Luna, who had risen from her seat from the back and now stood with the expression of fury and rage they all knew very well from the divers statues erected in her likeness to be found here and there in the country. “How dare you, all of you, give the sanction of your attention to the mockery of a great mind in these ersatz legal proceedings! Fear not, dear Dr. Schopenhoofer—I will avenge thee!” A great swelling of navy blue energy, streaks of miniature lightning erupting from its heart, complete with an apparent dimming of the ambient light, began to grow from the tip of her horn, as the irises and pupils of her eyes disappeared into a sheer, stormy black. The hairs of everypony stood up on end, as if vigorously rubbed by a balloon. But just when the darkness reached its peak, and it seemed to everypony that a discharge was imminent, Princess Luna roared again—yet this time, it was not a battle cry, but the scream of a lady taken by surprise by a spider. The atmosphere returned to normal, the lighting returned, and where once stood the princess and her regal rage, now there was only an undulating cluster of royal guards. The crowd parted, and the spectators saw that they had the princess utterly subdued and were carrying her suspended from the floor, one guard with a hoof firmly around each one of her limbs, and another who held her neck in a very interesting headlock which permitted him to walk at the same time. High pitched cries of “Unhand me! To the gallows and galleys with you! I am your princess; I am your princess!” were punctuated with the flat, deferential, military drawls of the Royal Guards about her, saying, in between their slight grunts of exertion: “Right this way, Your Majesty.” “If you would just follow us, Princess.” “Mind the step, Princess.” In their confusion at seeing a princess so roughly handled by her guards, all the shocked spectators could do was whisper nervously to one another. The police, held back by a worry of the legal ramifications of intervening and by the apprehension of taking a Royal Guard in a fight, pretended not to notice what was happening. Due Process remained silent. Though his lawyer’s instincts told him to object to this cruel and unusual treatment, he wasn’t sure how to proceed when no bailiff stood between him and the behavior he wanted to object to and there was a very realistic possibility that acting would get him stabbed in the face. He was about to say something to his client, but he stopped short when he saw that she, far from taken aback, was absentmindedly glancing about the room, almost as if she were looking for a clock. “Your Majesty!” said Due Process, his teeth grinding, frustrated that modesty would not allow him to raise his voice above of a whisper and that a whisper didn’t allow him to express said frustration. “Your guards . . . what are they doing?” “Hm?” she said, looking back at the shuffling crush of body armor, as if just now noticing the uproar. “Oh, don’t mind them. They’re just doing their duty.” “Their duty?” gasped Due Process. “Your Majesty, they’re assaulting your sister!” “Of course they are. That’s their duty.” Due Process blinked. Princess Celestia chuckled and patted him on the head with a hoof, which caused one of Due Process’s feathers to pop out from being ruffled too hard. “My dear,” she said, “nothing could be more simple. Every member of the Royal Guard swears, under pain of dishonor, to protect me and my sister from all threats, even if—rather, I should say, especially if—that threat is to each other or to ourselves.” She chuckled when, for a brief second, the sky outside went dark and a thunderhead blocked out the sun, a torrent of raining and a spasm of lightning erupting—and then vanishing at once with what sounded like a high, princessly scream of pain. “May I go?” said Schopenhoofer. “If Ms. Res Judicata has no questions to ask you,” said Petty Nicety. “Just one,” said she, rising with a smug look that made Due Process shiver. “Dr. Schopenhoofer, have you, in your opinion, ever personally experienced discrimination by your current employer?” “That’s not a fair question!” shrieked Due Process, leaping onto his desk. “Unless the professor has filed a complaint with the PRAT against my client in the past, and unless that complaint was heard, accepted, and subsequently remedies were ordered—and I can tell you for sure that neither is the case, for, as part of my preparation, I searched the database of cases and could find none that Dr. Schopenhoofer participated in—the answer is decidedly no!” “Mr. Process—” said Petty Nicety, but then stopped herself short. Due Process could not define what constituted the nature of the expression on her face, but he prayed, convincing himself that, for once, some shred of rigor and justice had gotten through. “Mr. Process,” repeated Petty Nicety, “we will permit the question.” “But—” “The fact that Dr. Schopenhoofer has never filed a complaint that was ruled in his favor cannot in any way be construed to mean that he has never experienced discrimination; only that he has never lodged a complaint. Whether or not Dr. Schopenhoofer has actually experienced discrimination, as an objective, demonstrable legal fact, does not, at the present moment concern the Tribunal. What we are more interested in is whether Dr. Shopenhoofer has ever felt discrimination. In the current context, that is enough to constitute, on a balance of probabilities, evidence of discrimination.” It was all Due Process could do to keep the molecular bonds in his body from severing. “Have you ever experienced any discrimination from the school?” repeated Res Judicata. “Vell, yes,” said Schopenhoofer, with as casual a manner as if someone were to ask him did he have a well-funded RRSP. “Ze school vould not be able to operate ozhervise.” “Dr. Schopenhoofer . . .” mumbled Due Process, “you really ought to elaborate on what—” “No more questions!” shrieked Petty Nicety. “You had your chance. You may go now, Dr. Schopenhoofer.” Schopenhoofer nodded, grinned for the benefit of a press photographer, and exited at a trot more sprightly than the lumbering shuffle he had used for his entrance. Due Process laid his forehead on the desk. He was too mentally drained to estimate the impact of that testimony on the case as a whole. Through the fog of contradictions the world was demanding he grasp and hold—which he was, with time, becoming more able to accept and integrate with the rest, albeit not without a cost to his dignity and sanity—he could vaguely sense that what had just occurred had caused more harm than good. He felt a gentle nudge on his shoulder. He ignored it, knowing that the world was judging him, and was now demanding he look upon and recognize that judgement. But when he felt the nudge again, he turned and saw Princess Celestia looking down on him—and, far from the scowl he had expected, she looked at him with tenderness, with even, so he thought, a hint of maternal affection. “Dr. Schopenhoofer is a smart stallion,” she said. “Too smart,” said Due Process. “He uses words precisely—too precisely. Res Judicata got him to use the precise meaning of words to obfuscate, confuse, suggest, and equivocate. Sure, Schopenhoofer is a genius, but Res Judicata is another kind of genius, and this is her home turf.” “You can see why I chose him to educate my students.” “If he had just been allowed to explain what he had meant . . .” “Would that have helped?” “Absolute—” Due Process began, but stopped. Then, laughing, he shook his head. “No, Your Majesty . . . had he been allowed to explain to the Tribunal that the literal meaning of discrimination—indeed, the real meaning of discrimination, before special interest groups usurped the definition for their own agenda—is the act of applying judgement to differentiate between what one ought to do and what one ought not to do. To Dr. Schopenhoofer, the meaning of the word is obvious and needed no elaboration. He’s right; it is obvious, but not in the way he thought—at least not here. Res Judicata knew that; I didn’t.” He sighed. “It’s too bad that he wasn’t a unicorn,” said Princess Celestia with a chuckle. “Then that line of questioning wouldn’t have worked.” “It wouldn’t have mattered. They would have just drawn the conclusion that he was blinded by his white unicorn privilege. But maybe . . .” Due Process raised his head from the desk, and sat up, suddenly awake, his wings perked. “Maybe had he been a pegasus . . . oh, better yet! Maybe had he been a pegasus gender studies teacher—” “Careful now, Esquire,” said Princess Celestia with a smirk. “You’re starting to sound like a PRAT commissioner.” And all at once, the modicum of vitality that had invigorated him for a brief moment, bestowed upon him by the opportunity to construct an argument, vanished, and Due Process collapsed again upon his desk, only this time with a shudder.