Free Aftermath by Ann Aguirre Page B

worse than dream therapy. I acknowledge her words with a weary nod and do as I’m told. Inside my cell, it’s just as bleak: gray walls, a bunk, and that’s all. I assume I’ll be taken to meals and to use the facilities, but when I ask, the woman just grunts at me.
    “I wish to hire a barrister,” I repeat, this time to my guard, as she’s leaving.
    “I’ll pass that along,” she says in the same tone as frag off .
    The door closes, lock engaged, alarm armed. No way out. This has to be a violation of my rights; I should be permitted to consult with legal counsel before being locked away. Yet based on the scene at the spaceport, I can’t deny the situation is volatile. It’s possible they’ve put me here for my protection. Since there’s nothing else to do, I lie down on the bunk and stare up at the ceiling.
    Hours pass in this fashion, or at least I think they do. Eventually, I sleep, and awaken to a polite, AI voice. “Please stand back from the door, prisoner 838.”
    I have a number now; she imprinted it on the back of my neck. As instructed, I remain where I am.
    It’s a different guard this time, also female. She appears to be in late middle age without any signs of Rejuvenex treatments. Her body is heavy and strong, more than a match for me, should I get any ideas.
    “The jurisprudence center employs a large human workforce,” I note.
    “Bots can be hacked and reprogrammed. People can’t.”
    But they can be bribed. Wisely, I don’t say this aloud.
    She goes on, “Follow me.”
    I see no point in asking where we’re going; it isn’t like I have any choice over my movements henceforth. Resistance will just earn me behavioral correction. So I follow her down the bleak gray hall. At the four-way, she makes a left turn and leads me to a set of security doors. The locks in place require a code, her pass card, and a ret-scan. Once she finishes, we pass through and into what looks like a visiting center.
    For the first time, I see other prisoners in stalls made of more unbreakable glastique, where they can be supervised at all times.
    “Hold out your hands,” the guard orders. When I comply, she shackles them at the wrists. “You will be permitted fifteen minutes for legal consultation. Second booth to the left.”
    Puzzled, I head toward the stall she indicated, and the door pops open at my approach. So everything is automated. I don’t recognize the woman waiting for me; she’s sharply tailored in black with her brown hair pinned up in a complicated arrangement. Impossible to say how old she is, but she bears the smooth, ageless look I associate with Ramona, which means she’s had top-notch Rejuvenex treatments. If nothing else, it says she’s a capable barrister because she can afford them.
    Her clothes are real fabric, another mark that she’s high- priced, and they’ve been hand-altered to fit her perfectly—nothing straight out of a wardrober for this woman. I admit it adds to her aura of perfect confidence. She stands as she notices me but doesn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead, she turns her face up to the ceiling.
    “Please turn off all monitoring software at this time. I’m invoking counsel-client privilege.”
    “Acknowledged,” replies the imperturbable AI. “Switching to visual human surveillance only.”
    I step into the stall and take a seat opposite her at the table that has been formed out of glastique. There are no loose parts in here, either, just as in the halls and in the cell, nothing that could instigate an escape—a well-designed prison, this one. She consults her handheld.
    “Thanks for joining me, Ms. Jax. I’m Nola Hale, and I’ve been hired to defend you against all criminal charges.”
    “By who?”
    “Irrelevant. As we have only a short time, I’d prefer to be efficient.”
    I nod. “What do you need to know?”
    “Everything. But we don’t have time for that today. I intend to defend you pursuant to Title 19.”
    “What does that