The Caprican Conspiracy: Chapter 8; ‘The Trial’ The courtrooms of Libran had seen many scandals over the years. Businessmen, robbers, even kings had crossed those halls, accused of crimes from petty theft to genocide, yet the proceedings of this day seemed to put all of them to shame. A media frenzy had washed over the entire nation. What had started as a quest for truth and justice had degraded into a witch-hunt, and the people would not be satisfied until somebody had paid the price. The heavy iron doors creaked open, unveiling the face of a broken man. Surrounded at all sides by a barricade of guards, the heads of spectators cocked like vultures to desperately gain a glimpse of the former president, as he shuffled forward into the room. It was hard to imagine that the weak, frail body in front of them could have ever posed any threat, suggesting that any precautions were more for his own safety than for anybody else’s. The room fell a deathly silent, broken only by the distant roars of crowds from the courtyards outside. The accused took his place at the front of the courtroom, took in a deep breath, and closed his eyes. Air thick with tension, the final verdict was spoken… Not guilty. The room descended into chaos; a mirage of elation and outrage, yet his eyes remained closed. Three figures stood up from the crowd. Picon, Leonis, and Tauron - three colonies who had championed the president’s guilt - now left publicly humiliated. Silent, their faces blank and emotionless, they pushed past the crowds towards the doors. Though their exit was likely intended to be quick and subtle, this plan was soon foiled as swarms of journalists poured into the room like locusts, equally excited in capturing their shame, as well as the former president’s newly found freedom The three continued to push past without a word. Finally, after several minutes of motionless, the former president opened his eyes. A small sigh of relief left his cracked lips. He turned to the crowds eagerly awaiting his first statement, yet all he could muster were the words ‘it’s over’. At the back of the room, the three delegates had managed to reach a back door. As they shuffled through, covering their faces from the flashing cameras, the Leonan delegate mumbled one sentence; ‘It’s not over yet…’
