The Universe — or Nothing by Meyer Moldeven (i like reading .txt) 📕

"Summarize the facts adverse to our cause and our options for dealing with each. Arrange and rate the options according to their probabilities for results favorable to the UIPS, and separately, favorable to the interests of the Outer Region's Nations. Consider UIPS limitations in nonrenewable metals, minerals and other vital reserves until Slingshot begins to produce. Take the options into account and assume that Slingshot will succeed on schedule and will generate sufficient refined matter over time to meet the needs of both Regions.

"Project each option's draw down on resources committed to Slingshot, and estimate their impact on schedules. We may need to gamble here. Crank in the latest estimates on the years it will take for the Extractor to reach Alpha Centauri, get organized around the job, go online, and begin to produce. Compute out to the time that we will have rebuilt stockpiles within the Solar System."

Leaning slowly back into his chair as he spoke, Camari lowered his hands into his lap. His eyes moved from one advisor to the other. They returned his gaze, the bleakness in their eyes matching his own. "Try different combinations within the options and rate them," he continued. "Examine our treaties with the other powers and status of current negotiations and pending proposals. Show how each option, which has statistical probability for success up to exponent three can adversely affect those treaties or negotiations."

Camari drew a deep breath. "We need to take a fresh look at where we are. We've also got to avoid political irritations that may exacerbate the situation further. On the other hand, revisions to treaties and to our positions at the negotiating tables may be essential. Slingshot may solve our disagreements, but we cannot wait.

"Review our readiness and activation sequences consistent with our Quick Reaction Capability to deal with contingencies in the Slingshot Special Zone. Work up details on what needs to be done and by whom to upgrade our QRC initiatives for each contingency that I keyed in as probable. Show costs in still accessible resources separately and integrate results with relevant commitments and schedules. Draft implementation plans and execution directives to commit resources. Update constantly, but keep all implementation directives on 'hold' until I direct otherwise.

"We meet again in two hours," Camari, said, rising from his chair. "Computer: be ready to give a presentation on each option and its variations within the parameters I specified and which surface through your analyses. Double-check resource requirements and schedules, and tactical options and their possible effects on UIPS forces and assets in the Special Zone. Maintain current. When I select the course of action and authenticate them with the Presidential Implementation Designators, release directives to implement the decisions. Monitor and report. This completes my instructions to Computer."

The President turned toward the door from which he had entered. Pausing, he glanced back at the Minister of Intelligence.

"Allen," he said, "give me a rundown, within the hour, on our intelligence assets throughout the Outer Region. I am especially interested in your ability to intensify earliest possible infiltration and disruption throughout Narval's domain."

The door slid shut as he passed through. The wall panel across the view tank cavity lowered as the advisors departed.

The Strategic Concepts Computer presented visual displays accompanied by a gently modulated audio. The analysis was incisive, the coverage comprehensive. At its conclusion, the President scanned the faces of his Ministers and the Commander of the Space Forces.

"Comments?"

Scores of questions probed and tested the computer's logic and conclusions. Questions became observations, which, following discussion, became revisions that, were instantly extended to corollaries. Often, objectives and programs were adjusted. Finally, it was done — for the time being.

Rising from his seat, the President's eyes took in his grim advisors. Speaking softly, he passed decisions on several recommendations to his Ministers, Admiral Selvin, and into the Computer. Done, they sat silently for several moments, weighing the decisions' potential effects.

Rising and making his way toward the doorway,
Camari motioned to the Minister of Intelligence.
"I've read your report on our assets in the Outer
Region, Allen. I have a special task for your
Ministry."

He motioned the Minister for Intelligence to join him. They passed through and the door closed silently.

Chapter THREE

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,