“But five years for these charges? It isn’t fair.” She looked close to tears. Fucking do-gooders, always with the “feelings.” I had a momentary but strong urge to strangle her. Instead, I kept my hands and mouth shut.
My mother had taught me that, back at the dawn of time.
The bailiff approached. A big man, he reminded me of the officer . . . what was his name? Venkman. That’s right. Venkman. This one was prettier, though.
“Sooner begun, sooner done,” I sighed.
My mother had also taught me that. Not that she would appreciate my adherence to her little foibles of speech. She’d had neither time nor patience for criminals. And I was one, despite my attorney’s arguments to the contrary.
UP AND AWAY
The roar of rockets receded and was eventually reduced to a rumble in the bones as the atmosphere around the shuttle thinned and slowly gave way to vacuum. Eventually even that ended as we stopped accelerating and were no longer pressed into the acceleration couch.
The expanding conflict between my stomach and inner ear rapidly informed me of two important facts: one, we’d reached orbit, and two, the drugs that the corrections doctor had administered only blunted zero-g sickness, didn’t prevent it. From the sickly expressions pasted on everyone in view, the same could be said for the rest of the cargo of Nouvelle Geneve Corrections Shuttle Alpha-Seven-Two.
“You ain’t local, are you?” the man sitting across the aisle from me asked.
I spared him some attention and revised my earlier assessment. He, at least, showed no discomfort from the lack of gravity. In fact, he looked at ease.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, study completed.
“We heard you talking,” the man said, left eyelid twitching uncontrollably.
Certain I hadn’t said a word all day, I gave him one of my harder stares.
“What you looking at, Prometheus? We didn’t say a damn thing!”
“How do you know my name?” I hissed, surprise sparking anger. I glanced around, wondering if he was setting me up.
Nothing out of order.
Nothing but another twitch from the man across the aisle. “We know lots of shit, man. Renaud’s brains is doubled and redoubled on the bubble of our space, man . . .”
I blinked, slid my gaze from that twitching face to his jumpsuit. While we both wore inmate orange, his jumpsuit had a thick black stripe running from neck to ankle.
It took longer than it should have, but I figured it out.
He was Broken.
In my defense, they weren’t common, not anymore. In the days of my youth there had been a lot of them running around, but that was a long time ago. Even before the Perfected War. Those that suffered from conditioning failure were thin on the ground these days. Survival wasn’t easy when you had twenty and more instances of your personality constantly warring for control of your mind.
I turned away.
The man continued to speak, but I studiously ignored the words and eventually reduced his monologue to the burbling of an untended teapot. I was out of practice at it, but old skills come back quick.
The hatch slid open. A guard and another woman, this one in a yellow jumpsuit with “TRUSTEE” emblazoned across the chest and back, appeared at the hatch to the cabin three rows forward. I admired their grace, if not their general appearance, as the pair maneuvered with ease, one hand always in contact with a handhold.
“How you like the ride, wellers?” the hatchet-faced guard asked as she came to a halt above the central aisle. The trustee sniggered like the guard had told a great joke.
Almost everyone recognized a setup when they saw it.
Almost.
“Come over here and let me loose, bitch, and I’ll show you how much!” the couch-mate seated closest to the bulkhead shouted.
All eyes turned to him. The heavily muscled and veiny bulk spoke volumes; a tale of someone who’d come by their augments on the cheap and had them implanted without the least concern for concealing their advantages.