The first offense was being dead.

 

This, according to Statute 14.C-9.b of the Continuity Mandate, was punishable by a Class II Administrative Summons and a mandatory retraining session in “Existence Compliance.”

 

Unfortunately, the accused — one Henry Wallis of Cleveland, Earth — was no longer in a state conducive to receiving memos.

 

“We really must insist,” said Registrar Plim, tapping the edge of its clipboard against the table with all the gravitas of a sentient nail file. “Section 3 clearly states: ‘No sentient biological entity shall willingly or accidentally cease all metabolic activity within planetary jurisdiction without filing Form P-13 at least twelve (12) rotational cycles in advance.’”

 

Henry’s body said nothing.

 

The tribunal had gathered in the Penance Auditorium, a cheerful dome constructed entirely of motivational posters. Phrases like “Exist Forever or Exist Not At All!” and “Every Moment Is an Administrative Opportunity!” swirled across the walls in warm pastels.

 

“I mean,” Plim continued, swiveling toward the empty podium where Henry’s legal proxy should have stood, “we’re not unsympathetic. Sudden death is, of course, unfortunate. But ignorance of protocol is no defense under the Law of Perpetuated Continuance.”

 

From the back of the room, a janitorial entity raised a pseudopod. “Can I ask… was it at least a heroic death?”

 

Plim sighed, a noise like a deflating accordion.

 

“No. The subject expired while attempting to eat something called a ‘gas station egg salad sandwich.’ On a dare. In orbit.”

 

A collective shudder rippled through the court. Even the bailiff flickered briefly out of phase in embarrassment.

 

“Well,” said the janitor, retracting the pseudopod. “That’s bleak.”

 

The tribunal chair, a bio-crystalline arbiter named Threnk, chimed melodically. “Proceed to posthumous compliance options.”

 

Plim cleared its throat, or whatever anatomical equivalent it had for throat-clearing.

 

“As the subject failed to file death intent documentation, we must now determine an appropriate remediation. Options include: (1) Retroactive Un-Dying via dimensional tax deferral, (2) Temporal loop sentencing, or (3) Probationary resurrection with mandatory community service.”

 

“Define community service,” buzzed Threnk.

 

Plim adjusted its clipboard. “Assuming bodily integrity can be restored, the subject would be assigned to ‘Civic Vibrancy Enhancement’ — i.e., birthday party clownship — for the children of the Cryo-Immortal Upper Council.”

 

Another silence. The kind that carries paperwork.

 

“Well,” said Plim eventually, “he is from Ohio.”

 

There were murmurs of reluctant approval. Midwestern souls were known for compliance, especially under passive-aggressive threat.

 

At that moment, a small portal opened above the dais. A stream of quantum paperwork rained gently onto the floor. Plim caught the top form, scanned it, and blinked.

 

“Huh.”

 

“What is it?” asked Threnk.

 

“Apparently,” Plim held the form aloft reverently, “Mr. Wallis preemptively signed up for something called ‘Organ Donor Hologram Subscription Plus.’ His cortical pattern has been uploaded to a cloud server located just outside Andromeda. Technically, he’s still paying taxes.”

 

Threnk’s crystalline lattice pulsed yellow with relief.

 

“Well then,” it trilled. “We are once again in compliance.”

 

The room exhaled. The janitor retracted its mop into a portal of mild disappointment.

 

“Case closed,” announced Plim. “The deceased shall remain legally alive until further notice.”

 

And with a rustle of memos and mandatory applause, the tribunal adjourned.

 

Somewhere, in a digital server never meant to hold a human soul, Henry Wallis stirred.

 

“Does anyone know where I can get a sandwich?”