The Universe - or Nothing | Page 8

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