The Watch Commander drew a hand weapon from the
rack, adjusted the power to low stun, and checked
the safety. He slipped the sidearm into the sheath
at his waist and scanned the monitors displaying
his areas of jurisdiction.
The agri-ecol bays and industrial shops of the
Guardian Station were orderly and busy. The
officer's fingers ranged the console's keys.
Aud-viz transmissions from passageways, wardrooms,
and work and recreation areas slipped across the
screens in rapid succession. Inmates and guards
moved about, operated equipment, or worked at
their benches, each, in his or her own way, putting
in their time on the station's business.
A keystroke brought up the eight people boarding
the Station through the lower air lock. Two were
station guards, their weapons sheathed but
retainer clips disengaged for instant withdrawal.
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
passageway.
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 anticipating the order, separated
and spaced 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 passageway 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 space-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 passengers,
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 impassive.
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 attitude 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
passageway 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 space-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 spacecraft, 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 space
and spunnel express.
"Escorted Inner Region convoys regularly pass
through this sector on their way to the Slingshot
construction site. They include high-mass-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
passengers and cargo, or technicians to service our
specialized posts along the way and at destination.
We may have a half-dozen or so spacecraft 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 passageway.
"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 passageway. The other
guard brought up the rear.
They crossed spidery overpasses 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 passed 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 passed him and on through the opening.
The guards did not follow.
Of a sudden minus their escorts, the inmates
clustered inside the entry and stared about.
The compartment was generous by space 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 spaced along
the wall were curtained sleep-privacy enclosures.
Behind partitions 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 pass 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."
Faces relaxed a mite. One of the women sat on a
bench. The ice may have cracked, but the silence
held. Brad had their attention.
Seconds passed.
"Hodak."
The word welled up as a growl, low and rumbling
from a squat, muscular man. His deeply embedded
eyes circled the room from under a boulder-brow
that bridged the space beneath his bald pate to
blend with the stub nose, wide mouth and crinkled
skin of a seemingly amiable face.
"I'm Zolan," said the third male. He was of medium
height, slight of build, waxy features and a high
brow with the pallid complexion of a spacer. As
alert and tense as a coiled spring, Zolan leaned
against a bulkhead, eyes moving rapidly from
Brad to Hodak to the walls to fix on an opposite
bulkhead.
"That takes care of the men." A woman's voice,
melodious, dulcet. "I'm Adari."
Sturdy, tightly curled hair and chocolate-toned
skin. Her soft, rounded features were dimpled,
cheerful, animated. Standing near a sleep
enclosure, her grin was infectious. She brought
long-absent grins, twinkles and nods from the
others.
Repeating her name slowly, she smiled invitingly
at the petite woman seated on a nearby bench.
"My, aren't we cautious," the little one said as
she looked up and returned Adari's grin. "I am
Kumiko," she shifted her eyes to take in the
others, "and I regret to say that I am not
particularly pleased to be among you." She
paused, looked down. "Nothing personal, mind
you, it's just that I did have other hopes."
Eyes shifted to the last of the group. Tall and
slender, olive-skinned, she paced the narrow space
between the wall and the cell's central section.
Her turn, no longer to be put off.
"Myra," she said flatly.
The silence closed back in.