Free Aftermath by Ann Aguirre

refuse to give way, and now they’re just screaming, not questions, but curses and condemnations. If anybody’s on my side here, I can’t make out their words of encouragement. They wouldn’t ordinarily be present in the VIP hangar, but they’ve slipped security somehow—or maybe this is an intentional snafu, so the general public can see that the Conglomerate takes my crimes seriously. If a PR rep planned this, I give him credit. It’s a hell of a photo op.
    “We need two Peacemaker units, ASAP,” a local guard says to his comm.
    Someone lobs a bottle at my head, but it’s empty, and the impact isn’t as bad as other hits I’ve taken. The glass shatters at my feet, and the noise incites the crowd to greater violence. But before it can escalate to stampeding levels, a distant door opens, and two enormous bots wheel out. Both bear cannons in their chests and heavy laser rifles on each limb. They’re not sophisticated in terms of programming; they don’t need to be. Instead, they carry the kind of ordnance people would be crazy to fight. Matched with their thick plate armor, they’re almost impossible to handle, short of heavy weapons.
    “This scene will be pacified. To avoid bodily harm, desist from civil disobedience and vacate the area.”
    The Peacemaker units only make the announcement twice before the crowd loses steam and disperses enough for my guards to shove me through. Over my shoulder, I glimpse a young man with a sign that reads FREE JAX. My escort jerks me out the doors and into a waiting vehicle; it carries me to the jurisprudence center, where they keep criminals who aren’t permitted bond. In some cases, that’s because they’re too dangerous to cut loose for any number of credits; in others, it’s because they’re deemed a flight risk. I wonder which it is for me.
    I’ve been to the center before, but never in this capacity. Instead of going in the front, the penitentiary transport flies around back and deposits me at the processing entrance. The gunmetal gray door opens to a white hallway going in two directions. The universal sign for the female marks the right; the left bears the male symbol . . . and a couple of men, shackled as I am, come in ahead of me.
    My escort tows me down the hall to a service window protected with three different layers of security. The woman behind it scans the proffered datapad and buzzes me through. Guards shove me, as if I’m likely to resist, even though I haven’t so far. Maybe they think this makes it more real, but for me, it was real from the moment Vel told me this would happen. He’s never lied to me.
    “Did she give you any trouble?” the clerk asks.
    The first guard shakes his head. “Just a big fragging mess at the spaceport, that’s all.”
    “We’ll have to do better with the crowd control,” his partner adds. “Are we done here, Carlotta?”
    With a nod, she dismisses them, then turns to me. “Do you swear on your citizenship that you are, in fact, Sirantha Jax?”
    I hold up my right hand, and say, “I do.”
    In the next hour, in her office lab, she strips away most of my humanity and all of my dignity. The ordeal starts with a battery of tests, some more invasive than others. She ret-scans me, tests my blood and DNA. She’s quick and competent, at least, comparing the processed samples with what they already have on file. I don’t see the point.
    At my look, Carlotta explains, “It’s to make sure you’re Sirantha Jax. Sometimes wealthy defendants hire a stand- in willing to do their time in exchange for a payout.”
    Now, there’s an idea. If only I’d thought to have a double waiting in the wings. But I’m grateful she explained the situation to me; the guards treated me like I’m less than self-willed, a package to deliver. After she finishes, she scans me thoroughly, then a frown builds between her brows, and she isn’t a pretty woman to start with. Her protuberant forehead hangs heavy over deep-set eyes, giving