Chapter 3

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.”