EXILE

The next several hours were some of the most disruptive that Abraham Stein had ever experienced. They were the last few minutes of his life free of any criminal convictions, and the knowledge that the CSA were rushing his trial through did little to comfort him. The sheer speed of the process told him that the case against him had actually been built a long time before he had been arrested, and, like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle, he had been found to complete the picture. It was obvious to all concerned that his fate was sealed, and it involved a bit more than a missing personal identification. Also, his trial was to be part of a face-saving exercise for the CSA in the wake of the spaceport assassinations.

Stein was uncertain who of the other Movement agents had succeeded, but he did not know that none of the other operatives had been arrested. The lack of any direct arrest was a major embarrassment for the CSA, particularly when members of the central committee had been killed. Their attention, then, had turned to Stein. They knew that the Movement was responsible, everyone knew. Arresting Stein on the same morning, and having evidence that forensics could use to link him directly with the Movement, was the one highlight of the CSA week, and they were going to milk his case for all that it was worth.

The guards all knew that he wasn’t a routine remand prisoner. When he had first returned to the remand level at the top of the CSA headquarters building, there was a change of shift. Although there were only four guards in the guard room next to the elevators, they all stopped talking when he was escorted out of the elevator, and although he focussed on the hallway before him, Abe sure as hell felt the glare of four pairs of eyes on his back. As he walked away from them, he could hear some muttered comments from the guards. He couldn’t hear exactly what was being said, but he was certain that it was about him, and that it wasn’t friendly. Fortunately for him, it was too soon before his trial for any of them to `visit’ him and to leave their calling cards. With only a few hours remaining to his remand, he almost casually strolled the last few metres to his cell, safely secure from the induced disorientation of the lights and erratic meal schedule.

Alone again, perhaps for the last time for years to come, Stein took stock of his situation, and was satisfied. Although he had sacrificed his family life, he had not sacrificed his family. He had been scrupulous in his isolation of them from his heart’s true calling, and they were safe from suspicion. And he had given the green light for the Movement to embark on their essentially do-or-die effort, the project that had been in the planning and preparation stages for years. How it would end, he did not know, but he was certain that it would change the government of the Earth’s people irrevocably. As he lay, alone and silent in the artificial twilight, he was content for the first time in months.

A few hours after the door had closed behind him, his last remand meal arrived. The panel across from his pallet beeped once for the regulation five seconds, after which the green light above the dumb-waiter slot came on, indicating that it was unlocked. Stein sat up, and reached across. He put his hand inside, and took hold of the warm papier-mache’ tray inside, pulling it out instantly. The slot was unlocked for two minutes, after which the prisoner ran the risk of going hungry. The meal was the same bland, textureless, unidentifiable goop that bore no resemblance, taste-wise or in smell, to any known foodstuff. It was perhaps ironic that of all of the people who worked in the CSA building, from the agents and judges to the caretakers, the most famous was the chief dietitian, a buxom blonde known as Nanette. Her remarkable failings as a cook were known to thousands, thanks to the common complaints made during public visiting sessions. Cooking for remand prisoners for the better part of thirty years, she had become living folk-lore, with countless mothers threatening their children to have Nanette cook for them if they didn’t eat what they were given. Generally, the threat worked like a charm. Not that that was much consolation for the remand prisoners.

Stein ate it much the same way that he had eaten every other meal - with a strong mental detachment, concentrating on what his likely fate would be, and how best to use each possible scenario to the best advantage for the Freedom Movement. Safe in the custody of the CSA, about to be tried for possible treason, he still bent all of his energy towards furthering the Movement’s mission to free the Earth from the shackles of the Central Committee.

He ate with so much detachment that he didn’t realise at first when he had emptied his tray. Looking down, he saw the empty tray, and his hands. For perhaps the first time in weeks, he noticed the skin on his hands. It was no longer the supple, strong skin that coated his fingers like a warm glove. It was pale and mottled, stretched thin over the obvious bone structure. He raised his hands in front of his face, and studied them. They were unfamiliar, skeletal hands, not the beefy paws that he had used as a young man. He touched one to his face, which felt much gaunter, more haggard than he remembered. Without having seen his own image in a mirror for many days, he had no idea what he looked like. Judging from the stubble on his chin, he had a pretty good idea, from visualising his features, that he probably looked as if he had been starved in a closed room for an indeterminately long period, which in a way, he had.

He dropped his hands, and, leaning forward, pushed the empty tray into the garbage slot. It flamed intensely for half a minute as it was swiftly incinerated, and he held his hands in front of the flap to feel the brief wave of heat come off it. The tray gone, he lay back down and closed his eyes for the last few hours of restful sleep that was left to him before his trial and sentence.

Stein slept deeply, and wasn’t so much stirred by the sound of his cell door sliding open. His awakening was abrupt, with the rough hands of two guards pulling him up by his arm, cuffing it neatly as he rose, bleary-eyed and still in the world of dreams that no-one can remember. As he was pulled to his feet he swiftly began to orientate himself, bringing his other arm around behind him in time for it to be cuffed to the other.

Blinking, he looked around him, taking in the grey, featureless cell that had been his temporary home in one last, sweeping glance. He looked up, and recognised the guard that had taken him to the visitors room the morning before. Fair enough. It was the next day definitely, as the guards were changing shift when he had returned, and must have changed again to the morning while he had slept. Pushed by the guard in the spot between his shoulder blades, he left his cell, the door of which remained open, instead of closing. That alone assured Stein that he was not to return. Fair trial? Unlikely, but not expected.

For the second time in those twenty-four hours, Stein was escorted down the hall to the lifts that returned him to the first floor, where he was to appear on trial. As the elevator doors opened to let them out, Stein turned his head briefly to the end of the hall, where he could see a solid, unbroken ray of sunlight spilling through the small, barred window. Judging from the angle of the rays, the day was well and truly under way. His assessment of the time was confirmed as they reached the bailiff’s door to Courtroom Three. Just as they approached it, the door was opened from the other side, and two guards emerged, dragging a prisoner between them. The prisoner was screaming his innocence, and was struggling to free himself until one of the guards unhitched a hand-unit from his belt and stunned the prisoner with a bolt of electricity to the back of his head. Nothing more than a hotted-up cattle prod, the hand unit effectively subdued the man, rendering him insensible for an instant, and positively dazed for the next hour, plenty of time in which to pass him through to begin his sentence.

Stein and the guards stood aside as the hapless convict was dragged past them. When the passage was clear, they entered the open door. Finding themselves in the waiting chamber, the three men sat down on a plain bench. They were a bit early, as there was another prisoner and his escort already waiting, but not for long. With the judge and the lawyers prepared for the next case, the bailiff came in through the courtroom door.

“Case nine-six-two-four, the Federal Council versus Taylor Morecamb.” Stein turned his head to look at Morecamb, who reluctantly stood, to be led by one of the guards out into the waiting area. He smiled briefly at the stranger, who struggled to reply with a feeble grin. All in the waiting room knew that Morecamb’s number was up. The Federal Councils were regional civic governments for the former nations - a case by a council was generally one that was considered to be of too great an import for the city or state courts. Stein’s own case was brought by the Federal Council, and they seldom erred. That was also a major factor in the rapid turn-around rate of the court.

The people in the waiting room could not hear the court proceedings next door, but it took very little stretch of the imagination for them to follow the normal course of events. Judge’s preamble, prosecution case and evidence, defence and witnesses, if any, followed by the plea, normally guilty to help soften the inevitable, and then judgement and sentencing. The whole process seemed to have developed its own formula, a screenplay that was repeated time and time again, with only the names, deeds and sentences varying. As they sat, waiting and counting the minutes, the hall door opened and another trial group entered, the three people sitting on the bench next to the Stein party. The guards grunted greetings to each other.

“How long have you been waiting?”

“Half an hour or so.”

“That long? Who’s appearing right now?”

“Morecamb.”

“Figures. He’s federal, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. You know about him?”

“I was court officer when he was remanded. His brief is that new guy, McCulloch. He’s still actually trying to prove his guys are innocent, instead of just softening the sentence. He’s probably gumming up the works.”

“What did he do, anyway?”

“Pretty clear-cut. He bludgeoned an agent to death with a forequarter of lamb, and then tried to eat the evidence.”

“Stupid, but clever. Who’s the judge?”

“Borstaller.”

“Poor bastard. Looks like they’ll be scaring the pigeons at dawn, then.”

The guards’ little chat was interrupted by the courtroom door opening, with Morecamb being led by his guard out of the court, past the waiting men, and out into the hallway beyond. Morecamb appeared to be in a daze, and his lips muttered slightly to himself as he was led meekly to his doom. There was a wait of about five minutes before the bailiff entered, and called for Stein’s case. Hearing their number called, his guards stood up, pulling Stein with them. He was already on his way up, looking forward to his appearance. Hell, he’s sunk anyway. May as well see as to whether or not there are any life preservers floating about in the wreckage.

The bailiff stood aside as the three men passed him, and then turned to follow, closing the door behind him. Inside the courtroom, the gallery was full of the public, most of them the media. Paul Roth was in his usual place at the defence bench, next to McCulloch, a young, sandy-haired man who had passed his bar exam only a month before. Apparently, he had been paired with Paul so that he may learn from Paul’s experience. It was the first time that Stein had seen Paul since his first appearance, which wasn’t surprising. He knew Paul well enough to know that Paul would not be seeking to disprove the forensic evidence, but to reduce the severity of the sentence. Nevertheless, he was not expecting to see Paul so drawn and exhausted. Part of it, he knew, was due to the workload assigned to Paul be the Justice Department. How much of his brother-in-law’s physical erosion had been brought about by Stein’s arrest and imminent destruction as a citizen, Abe could only guess, although he was certain that it was not insignificant.

Having entered the dock area, the two guards stood back as the bailiff led Stein to the dock. He mounted the three steps quietly but firmly, and held his head high, as he looked with a confident gaze first to the gallery, and then past Paul to the judge. In the gallery, three rows back, he immediately recognised the placid stick-insect figure of George Antunovich, shade on. A little to the right of George sat Rebecca, waiting patiently for the confirmation of her impending status as a CSA widow, as the euphemism had it.

With Stein in the dock, the pre-trial murmurs through the courtroom died down as the judge finished viewing his notes on the case. Satisfied that he knew where the case stood, he looked up and across to the prosecution bench, where Graham Steadman sat with Luis Ducatista and another man whom Stein did not recognise, but Borstaller did. A small, middle-aged man with a severely receding hairline, and wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, Clyde Singleton was one of the CSA forensic laboratory’s team leaders, and a frequent visitor to Borstaller’s sessions. Always testifying against the accused, never for. His work and his testimony was responsible for more convictions than any other CSA agent.

The courtroom quiet, Borstaller began. “Are you Abraham Jeremiah Stein?”

“I am.”

“You have been held on remand to face two charges. During this session you will face each charge and enter your plea. If you are found to be innocent of each charge, you will be released. If you are found to be guilty as charged for either one or both charges, sentence will be passed during this session, the punishment to be executed as soon as is practicable. Do you understand?”

“Yes, your Honour.”

“Alright.” Borstaller was uninspiringly indifferent to the sittings, and was increasingly informal in his language. Just another day at the office, he dropped most formal pretensions when he had an overbooked session, as this had become.

“Down to business. The first charge is that on the morning of the twenty-third of April of this year, you were unable to provide any documented form of identification when requested to by an agent of the Central Security Agency. Do you wish to enter a plea?”

“Guilty, Your honour.” There was no point in Stein disputing the charge.

“Entered. Does Counsellor Roth wish to make an address in the defence?”

Paul stood up. “Your Honour, I have consulted with my client. When the agents of the CSA made the request of Mister Stein, he had been sleeping, and was in a room of the State Hotel, not his home. He was there for reason of a private walking tour, which he was in the habit of taking on a regular basis. I visited his home, and was able to locate some, but not all of his personal identification. In light of the area in which he was found, and his reason for being there, it is entirely likely that he unwittingly lost what identification that he had on him to a pickpocket.”

“I understand, Counsellor,” Borstaller said.

“Thank you. In light of the circumstances, it is insupportable for the Central Security Agency to maintain any claim that my client was without any personal identification for any reason other than unintentional. It is entirely likely that when he settled his account at the hotel, he would have noticed the loss, and seen to report it missing as soon as he was able. That he was approached by the agents is a most unfortunate case of simple bad timing.”

Stein, who through all of Paul’s address had been listening silently, raised a questioning eyebrow to Paul, with a slight smile. To Paul, it was Abe’s familiar signal to proceed, that Paul had Abe’s approval. It could only help matters later.

“Thank you, Counsellor. Does the counsel for the prosecution have any reply to Counsellor Roth’s assertion?”

“No, Your honour,” Ducatista replied. He was remarkably relaxed, and remained seated as he smiled his reply to Borstaller. He and the judge knew that they could well afford to let the first charge slide, considering the surety of the second charge.

“Very well, Mister Stein, in light of Counsellor Roth’s address, and considering your plea of guilty, I find you to be guilty as charged, to the first charge. As Counsellor Roth’s explanation cannot be disproved, I sentence you to twelve days imprisonment and one hundred hours community service. Your twelve days with our establishment in remand are to be counted against your sentence.

“Which brings us to the second charge that you have been remanded against.” Borstaller paused briefly, while he turned aside the documents for Stein’s first charge, and swiftly reviewed the formal charge document for the remainder of Stein’s appearance.

“Since your first appearance, the Central Security Agency has reviewed its evidence, and has refined the charge slightly. Your brief, Counsellor Roth, was duly informed throughout the process. The charge is that you, Abraham Jeremiah Stein, is a known associate, and consequently a member, of the outlawed Freedom Movement, whose stated objective is the destruction of the Global Union and its governing Central Committee. Further to this charge, it is claimed that you are the author of known documents that outline the treasonous and seditious plans and objectives of the said Freedom Movement. Do you wish to enter a plea?”

“No, Your Honour.” Stein was calm, showing not a flicker of emotion as he listened to the reading of charges against him that would have produced angry and incredulous responses from many other people. Borstaller sighed audibly.

“Very well. I will now call upon the counsel for the prosecution to present the details and evidence of the charge against the defendant.”

Ducatista stood up, straightening his suit jacket as he moved out from behind his bench to the floor before the judge. “Your Honour, Counsellor Roth. You are familiar with the charge against Mister Stein. Perhaps you query how it is that such a serious charge has come to be laid against such an outstanding member of society, a man who, until his recent arrest, had not so much as a driving infringement on his record. Let me explain some of the history of the Central Security Agency’s work against the traitors who are known collectively as the Freedom Movement.

“It has long been considered by the CSA to be the major threat to the security of the Global Union, principally because they were, or are, organised and highly secretive, which also contributes to their survival, despite the CSA’s best efforts to identify and arrest their members. In order that we may be better able to understand, and thereby bring about the demise of this threat, we brought together a project team that was led by Agent Graham Steadman. Several months ago, a member of the team, Junior Field Operative Ian Franklin, succeeded in becoming the first CSA agent to be invited to join the Freedom Movement. Incidentally, all that I tell the court is now on public record, and can be verified. Copies of this material have already been supplied to the counsel for the defence.

“JFO Franklin had been in the field undercover for many weeks, circulating freely under the alias of a vehicle salesman whose business was suffering from the tax system introduced three years ago. He had plenty to misguidedly complain about, and as he hoped, his sincere complaints were heard, the response being his invitation. Once he had been accepted into the Freedom Movement, he studied its structure and operation as thoroughly as his position as a raw recruit permitted. Naturally, the information that was made available to him was very limited, but by observing those with whom he had contact, the team was able to place surveillance personnel at critical points. The scattered, disparate pieces of information that Franklin and the watchers were able to glean from his cell-mates were passed on to the CSA Hypothetical and Surveillance teams, whose initial work was to formulate an advance timetable and site map of meetings of the upper levels of the Movement hierarchy. The material was good - it led us to one such meeting. However, the meeting received some form of warning of the raid, and they escaped, but left numerous hand-written documents that outlined their future plans, strategies and intentions.

“The project team then had two tasks - find the authors, and work out their next move. The hypo-surv team successfully performed the later-task, with the team, led by Agent Steadman, following the evidence trail as signposted by the hypo-surv team. At the end of the trail they found one man, the defendant. The forensics laboratory had, in the meantime, analysed the manuscript, and had issued summary examples to the special team. The defendant, upon booking into the State Hotel, had signed the register. That page was taken as evidence, and the forensics laboratory have since analysed the page, and other documents that were recovered from the defendant’s business under search warrant number four-five-nine-two-zero. The script characteristics on the recovered Freedom Movement documents, and those of the defendant’s own writings, match to within ninety-eight percent.

“In itself, we have confirmation that the defendant is one of two authors of the material recovered from the raid. In light of his decision to go on a walking tour under a different name, Stone, as in the hotel register, and to be found sans identification within a few hundred metres of the new spaceport, on the very day that the Freedom Movement assassinated certain members of the Central Committee, I would not hesitate in charging the defendant with complicity and intention to commit first-degree murder. As the evidence stands, however, it seems to me that we will have to content ourselves with the irrefutable evidence that proves that the defendant is a member of the illegal organisation, and is one of the two authors of significantly treasonous material. As association with the organisation is only possible by membership, the mere proof that the defendant wrote the material that was recovered from a Movement cell is proof of his membership. That is all, Your Honour.”

Borstaller looked at Ducatista keenly for a moment, and then glanced at the clock on the wall. Turning to face Roth, he folded his hands, interlacing his fingers. “Counsellor Roth, you may address the charge.”

Paul stood, not bothering to move out from behind his bench. He knew, and so too did Abe, that the evidence was damning. However, his task was as it had always been, to lighten the load.

“Your Honour, Counsellor Ducatista. We have heard the charges against my client. Certainly, he may have written the documents concerned, but I would question any assertion that the documents reflect my client’s own thoughts. That there is another, unknown author suggests that rather than the material being his own thoughts and ideas, that he most likely was providing a transcription service, acting as secretary, perhaps. Your Honour, if you were to require Counsellor Ducatista to copy the documents in his own hand, you would have the same material as written by a CSA lawyer. That he wrote it does not mean that he holds by it. Certainly, my client may have been proven to be a member of an illegal organisation, but the charge should stop there, as it is probable that he was a junior member of similar level to Junior Field Operative Franklin, himself a member of an illegal organisation. Will you prosecute JFO Franklin? I think not. As a junior, my client’s duties would have been expected to include recording the minutes of meetings that he may not have actively participated in. To further suggest that he was in the State Hotel for any reason other than a private walking tour is pure conjecture, and any causal link with the events at the spaceport, mere co-incidence. After all, if my client was involved with the assassinations, why would not his presence in this very building not have prevented the assassinations?

“Your Honour, my client is from a family renowned for their previous service to the Global Union, and I strongly assert that my client was nothing more that a most junior member of the Freedom Movement, and then only perhaps as a moral transgression, a sub-conscious response to numerous professional and emotional stresses that he has been subject to. His hand may have held the pen, but it cannot be proven that it was his thoughts that filled the paper. Your Honour, I request, on my client’s behalf, that the charge be reduced to one of membership only. That is all.”

Paul sat down, and Borstaller made some notes, before addressing Stein.

“Abraham Stein, you have heard the charge and evidence against you, and the statement in your defence. Do you wish to add anything?”

“No, your Honour.”

“Very well. In response to your Counsel, I am reducing the charge to one of membership of an illegal organisation, one whose stated aim is the destruction of the Global Union. I ask you now - to this reduced charge, how do you plea?”

“Guilty, Your Honour.” Stein knew as well as anyone that to deny the charge was futile, particularly in light of such persuasive evidence against him. The judge looked at him hard.

“I am glad that you see sense, son. I have no choice but to find you guilty of the charge as read. Before I pronounce your sentence, I should like to remind you of your relatively good fortune in having your combination of family history, previously unblemished record, and in having Counsellor Roth for your defence. I am sure that you are aware that had you been found guilty of the charge as it was before Counsellor Roth made his address, you would be facing capital punishment, such is the case for all crimes that involve active treason. In essence, Counsellor Roth’s address has saved your skin. Be that as it may, the Freedom Movement is considered to be a major threat to the continuity and the survival of the Global Union, and consequently membership of the movement is tantamount to treason. As you have not been proven to be actively participating in any direct acts against the State, you may be removed from it, as the State can not be removed from you.

“Therefore, I sentence you to servitude in the lunar penal colony for a period of not less than twenty years, at the end of which you may return to Earth. The sentence is to commence immediately. Case over.”

With the wooden clap of Borstaller’s gavel, the guard behind Stein reached up and, taking hold of his upper arm, pulled him gently down from the dock. Stein looked quickly over to where Paul sat, and smiled briefly. Paul saw, and sat still, satisfied that he had saved his brother-in-law’s life, but feeling as if his guts had been ripped out. Years ago, a simple crime trial could drag on for months. Now, minutes were the rule. The legal profession found it demeaning, for they could no longer work as they once had. Now, they were mere figureheads, caricatures of the past. Behind him, Rebecca sat stony-faced, having resigned herself to the inevitable a long time ago. Borstaller was already lining up the next case. A production line, and he was a very small cog with a bit of leverage.

In front of him, he saw the back of Abraham Stein, framed by two uniforms, retreating from his life. He had saved Abe’s life, but to what avail? No-one survived more than fifteen years on the moon.

Stein did not look back.