The Universe - or Nothing Part 3

A slight adjustment brought into sharp focus the closed features of the three men and three women in dun-colored coveralls, under escort. He studied their faces for a moment and turned away. The bank of screens shut down as he stepped across the doorway of the cubicle that served him as both command post and sleeping quarters. He strode briskly toward a hatch at the far end of the pa.s.sageway.

The lead guard, who had appeared a moment before on the screen, stepped off the ladder leading from the lower level and glided forward in the light pseudo-gravity followed by the six prisoners he had escorted from the transport. The prisoners, without constraints, walked silently. All had their hair trimmed uniformly close to their heads. The men's faces were as hairless as the faces of the women.

The second guard brought up the rear.

The forward guard came abreast the Watch Commander, stopped, barked a command to halt, and turned to face his charges. They knotted forward, not antic.i.p.ating the order, separated and s.p.a.ced themselves.

"OK, inmates," the guard grinned, "up against the bulkhead, please. Relax. You're gonna get the official greeting to this paradise of the outback."

Swinging about, he tossed a perfunctory salute in the officer's direction. At ease against the opposite bulkhead, he watched benignly as his charges shuffled about and lined up in no particular order. The guard at the other end stood astride the pa.s.sageway in a casual stance.

The Watch Commander cleared his throat with a slight cough to focus their attention.

"I'm Lieutenant Malcolm," he said. "I run the Reception Center on this station. You may or may not know where you are; let's be certain that you do."

The six faces stared at him. One of the men in the lineup, third from the head, shifted his gaze from the officer to the guards and back again.

A bit above medium height, ropy necked and thick-shouldered he gave the impression of a male at ease, confident but wary. Below his gray-black bristle of close-cropped hair and s.p.a.ce-bleached brows his deep-set green eyes moved on to calmly scan the deck, bulkheads and corridor. He returned eyes to the officer and the guards. He had the air of a leader.

The officer drew a deep breath and continued.

"The manifest of the transport from which you just disembarked listed you as 'cargo' transferred to this station from the temporary holding jails of Earth, Luna or Mars, or wherever you were being held. Don't let being recorded as 'cargo' bother you. Official visitors and guests are pa.s.sengers, prisoners are cargo. If the transport's brigs were cramped, that's the name of the game; they're not built for comfort. Each of you did get a separate cell on board, I understand. In that respect, at least, you all got better than routine treatment."

The last remark raised sardonic eyebrows on two faces in the line. The rest remained impa.s.sive.

Malcolm paused, then continued.

"Be prepared to be here for a while. You know your commitment period. Whatever happens to you here depends on your att.i.tude and your compliance with orders, and on decisions by those conducting your rehabilitation."

Pacing the line he stopped before each prisoner and stared at him or her from under bushy black eyebrows. Relaxed against the wall, or tense and erect, they returned his gaze. Inspection completed, he nodded at the guard astride the pa.s.sageway and turned back to address the line.

"You are inmates in the Social Rehabilitation Center of Guardian Station 15, about five million kay outbound from the Asteroid Belt's rim, or what was the Belt before the s.p.a.ce-miners got through with it. This station was the mining operations center for this sector.

"Our internal security is good. We've had no attempts at breakout in a dozen years. In the attempt that was made before then, the inmate didn't clear the sector. When it was over, I might add, he was a bit the worse for the experience."

Malcolm paused to let his words sink in.

"This prison," he continued, "is where the rehab system confines its high-risk and special treatment prisoners. Inmates include persons convicted of piracy of s.p.a.cecraft, smuggling controlled minerals and other substances, theft of government and important private properties, hijacking, espionage, armed robbery, gun-running to insurgents and terrorists in the Outer Region, and murder. That's the short list."

The prisoner's faces remained expressionless.

"Bear in mind..." the Lieutenant reached the end of the line and reversed direction, "that although the Guardian Stations are along the border between the Inner and Outer Regions, we're far from isolated.

For example, this station's present orbital coordinates accommodate Inner Region traffic to the Planet Pluto Special Zone through both normal s.p.a.ce and spunnel express.

"Escorted Inner Region convoys regularly pa.s.s through this sector on their way to the Slingshot construction site. They include high-ma.s.s-loaded container ships, construction rigs under tow and objects too large for the spunnel are routed through this sector when we're lined up.

"Sometimes they stop to pick up and discharge pa.s.sengers and cargo, or technicians to service our specialized posts along the way and at destination.

We may have a half-dozen or so s.p.a.cecraft alongside at any one time, just doing their jobs. When the moored ships are perceived as crowded, inmates dream of stowing away to somewhere else. That's no more than a dream; don't underestimate our surveillance systems. You've been warned."

He pointed at one prisoner, then another in a jabbing gesture.

"Our job is custodianship of those who can't adjust to the realities of our society, and rehabilitation and training of those who can be helped, eventually, to return to the outside world. There are other options for inmates who have special attributes. You will learn more of those in time."

Pausing, he scratched at his jaw.

"You are sojourners among us, and transient," he closed. "We will not abuse you; on the other hand, we will not coddle you. We tell all new inmates, as I'm now telling you: cooperate, and you'll find your stay tolerable, resist, and take the consequences."

A stern, hard stare, a shrug and his features relaxed.

"OK, that's the official greeting for all newcomers. I know you've all had a long, boring trip on a beat-up transport. I expect you'll want to unwind a bit."

He glanced at the forward guard, back against the bulkhead, and turned back to the prisoners.

"First, we'll get you into some decent quarters, and let you clean up and rest. Get to know each other; you'll be together for a long time.

"The guards will escort you to your core compartment. Normally, you would have started orientation and psy-phys testing immediately.

Your schedule is different. Your first orientation lecture will be in two hours. Sergeant Jenkins," he motioned the lead guard forward, "will escort you to and from orientation. Don't play games with him; he knows them all."

"All yours, Jenks," he said. "Move 'em out."

Jenkins came forward, pointed to a hatch further along the pa.s.sageway.

"Follow me."

Lieutenant Malcolm stepped aside. He watched the line move past silently and climb the companionway out of sight. None looked back.

Lining up in loose formation at the head of the companionway and responding to Jenkins signal the prisoners started along a pa.s.sageway. The other guard brought up the rear.

They crossed spidery overpa.s.ses that spanned busy workshops and agriculture bays under cultivation.

People and service robots moved about; the new prisoners drew few glances.

Jenkins drew them to a halt in a wide corridor.

Ahead was a shimmering force field. He murmured words and placed the palm of his hand on a dull composite plate embedded in the wall. The force field faded to a haze. They pa.s.sed through, and the haze resumed its shimmer behind them.

A portal came into view up ahead.

Jenkins motioned toward it and stepped aside as the prisoners pa.s.sed him and on through the opening.

The guards did not follow.

Of a sudden minus their escorts, the inmates cl.u.s.tered inside the entry and stared about.

The compartment was generous by s.p.a.ce habitat standards. Well-lighted, it stretched ten meters from wall to opposite wall. Parallel in the center of the room a double line of four gray tables stood fused to the deck, each with benches on each long side, similarly immobilized. Evenly s.p.a.ced along the wall were curtained sleep-privacy enclosures.

Behind part.i.tions on opposite sides of the compartment were entries to two standard wash-lavs. The furnishings were functional and clean.

One after the other, the prisoners drifted off to inspect the enclosures. All were back in less than a minute; they silently kept distance from each other.

The inmate who had so carefully examined the corridor while Malcolm talked, leaned against one of the tables and crossed his arms. He repeated his scan of the compartment, but this time one sector at a time, turning to take it all in yet pa.s.s over each cell-mate that entered his field of vision. His movements gave the group a focus; it was easier than to just stare at the walls and the austere furnishings.

"I don't get this," the table-leaner locked arms across his chest as he spoke with a puzzled expression on his face. His voice was low, flat yet courteous. "We may as well get the formalities out of the way. Who are we? Names will do for starters.

I'm Brad."