REDEMPTION TRAIL

The judicial process continued in the UN's lower court. Convicts who expected to get off with a fine were anxiously waiting for due process to commence so they could pay the fine and be done with the ordeal. Others, who expected confinement in a bleak, cramped holding canister, hoped that the proceedings and their last, fleeting glimpse of daylight, would be stretched out as long as possible.
There was one convict, however, who had an entirely different approach to the problem of eluding a prison term; Cassie Hempton.
Cassie, like the rest of the convicts, was restricted to a chair by cufflets. She too, sat next to her attorney as she waited to be sentenced. Cassie, unlike the others, had little to no faith in her attorney; she learned, from past experience, that few people could match her intelligence and skills when it came to worming her way out of a jamand she was not about to trust this particular affair to some pin- striped attorney.
Cassie was an attractive young woman of 21 and boasted a figure that could have easily rivaled any pageant queen. She turned a lot of heads and might have broken as many heartsif she would have been willing to venture past the acquaintance stage. Cassie had a happy-go-lucky spirit, broad mind, and a love for fantasy, which she frequently used as relief from self-imposed isolation.
Cassie often fantasized about pursuing an intimate relationship; to share thoughts and dreams, to share feelings and emotions, to share adventures and triumphs. But, in the depths of Cassie's mind, such a relationship was impossible. To share a life would, sooner or later, lead to sharing secretsand Cassie had a secret that she dare not reveal. Reluctantly, she gave in to the belief that the relationship of her dreams was a privilege reserved for normal women.
Cassie, was by no means, a normal woman. She suffered from a rare, mental aberration, dubbed Tripolean Syndrome, which manifests itself as exceptional, near-superhuman intelligence. There were only six known cases of Tripolean Syndrome in the entire human population. Cassie, however, was not one of those known cases; it was her secrether gifther curse. She knew that if the world ever discovered her condition, she would be exploited, controlled, analyzed, and dissected, just like all the others who suffered from Tripolean Syndrome. It was fear of these consequences that locked Cassie's life, and heart, in a self-made prison far more formidable than anything the UN had to offer.
One of the documented side-effects of Tripolean Syndrome was obsession. For Cassie, that obsession was getting away with just about anything, which was generally petty theft. She often resorted to petty theft because, in her mind, it was not all that reprehensible. She had a good conscience and was not about to stoop to devastating crimes, though the urge to do so often presented itself.
Cassie, herself, lost count of the hundreds of petty crimes that she had deliberately, and methodically, carried out over the years. To date, she had only been caught for six of them, five of which she managed to wiggle out of. It was that single, remaining conviction that brought her to the UN courtroom that morning.
The proceedings continued as a man convicted of aggravated assault was being sentenced to five years in a holding canister. Cassie knew that a mind like hers, if locked away in a dark holding canister for any amount of time, would certainly self- destruct. She saw this sentencing as a struggle for sanity, rather than a struggle for freedom. The judge was nearing the end of aggravated assault case when Cassie's attorney leaned over to make one more appeal for a change of strategy.
"We still have time to change our approach," he whispered.
Cassie shook her head in hopes of brushing off her attorney; she was trying to concentrate on the computer- generated voice coming from a small earpiece hidden in her ear canal. The voice was transmitted from a distant UN mainframe computer, which she controlled through a small, matchbook-sized computer hidden in her right hand.
The small computer, a Radio Shack Model 7, converted Cassie's home-made codes, which she tapped out with her forefinger, into valid mainframe commands. The Model 7 transmitted the commands to an illegal software implant, which she had installed into UN computers nearly a decade earlier. The implant allowed her to bypass UN computer security and take command of the mainframe at will. The mainframe, in turn, sent its reply directly to her earpiece. At that particular moment, she was trying to track the movements of her mark, Kreymec M. Altson, who was already under legitimate UN computer surveillance.
"Look," the attorney argued at a whisper, "according to UN provision 1292, if you don't leave for the frontier planets before the two-hour grace period expires, then you'll be in contempt of courtwhich carries a sentence of at least two years. You'd be much better off serving three to six months for shoplifting."
Cassie's response was firm. "I want 1292."
"Okay," he shrugged as he returned to his previous posture. "You just don't seem like the rich type who could afford a spaceliner ticket."
"I'll find a way," she muttered.
"In two hours?"
Cassie nodded with confidence, though her attorney did not share the same viewpoint.
"Contempt of court is not a trivial charge. Two hours from now the UN computers are going to track you down and"
The discussion was interrupted by the gavel.
"Next case, please."
The bailiff, again, turned his attention to the small, plastic computer terminal in his hand, "The United Nations verses Cassella R. Hempton."
Cassie's cufflets came free of the chair, then she and her attorney rose to face the UN justice.
"Proceed with the preliminaries."
The bailiff's voice echoed across the courtroom. "Cassella R. Hempton. Age 21. Nationality; Canadian. Occupation; Chamber maid. No previous convictions."
The judge turned his attention to one of the plastic computer terminals on his bench. His brow wrinkled in confusion for a moment or two before he looked up at Cassie and her attorney.
"I see you have filed for UN Provision 1292. Why?"
There was a noticeable pause, then Cassie answered in a humble, yet unswayed tone of voice.
"It's my right, your Honor."
"It is," the judge replied, "But permanent exile is hardly a fitting punishment for shoplifting. Has your council advised you that under UN Provision 1292 you will never be permitted to return to this solar system?"
"He has, your Honor."
Her attorney was quick to defend his position. "Your Honor, I have advised Miss Hempton on the consequences of her decision, and have done my best to persuade her to take the customary prison term in lieu of exile. Despite my efforts, your Honor, she insists on exile under Provision 1292."
"Hmm..." The judge settled back in his chair and rubbed his chin as he thought about the case. After a moment or two, he leaned forward and addressed the convicted.
"Young lady, it is the opinion of this court that your request for exile under UN Provision 1292 is ill- advised and unjust. Your crime hardly warrants a sentence as severe as 1292, but it is your right to pursue exile. Are you aware of your responsibilities under UN Provision 1292?specifically; you must leave the solar system within the two-hour grace period and must not return to Earth or its solar system for the remainder of your natural life."
Cassie's voice was flat and unmoved, "I am, your Honor."
The judge turned his attention to the court register, "Let the record show that Miss Hempton has been advised, and is fully aware, of her responsibilities under UN Provision 1292."
He returned his attention to Cassie, "Miss Hempton, do you, at this time, wish to withdraw your application for exile under UN Provision 1292?"
Again, Cassie's voice was flat and unmoved, "No, your Honor."
"Let the record show that the convicted, Cassella R. Hempton, was given ample opportunity to withdraw her application for exile under UN Provision 1292. It is the decision of this court to condemn Cassella R. Hempton to permanent exile under UN Provision 1292."
He struck the gavel, "So ordered! Next case, please."
With that, Cassie and her attorney started for the door.

As her lawyer suspected, Cassie was far removed from the affluent class who could afford passage on a spaceliner. As for her old tricks; it was, by far, easier to steal a spacecraft than it was to stow away on a spaceliner, and stealing a spacecraft capable of breaching the time barrier was no short orderbut Cassie was diligently working on the problem.

Elsewhere in the sprawling, domed city of Unli, Krey was trying to fulfill his responsibilities under UN Provision 1292. With only an hour and a half of grace period left, Krey had become quite desperate. After pre-paying court costs and attorney fees, he was left without enough funds to secure a rather formidable fuel load for the infamous RQ-733. Since fueling operations and flight preparation required nearly an hour, Krey had something in the neighborhood of thirty minutes to raise a substantial amount of cash.
During this awkward time of need, Krey turned to a close and trusted friend, who, as he was certain, would help him through thick and thin.
"NO, ABSOLUTELY NOT!"
"But Bruni"
"Forget it! There's no way in hell I'm going to lend a half a million marks to someone who ain't coming back!"
Krey tried to think of a solid rebuttal as Bruni, in his neatly-tailored suit, sorted through a leather- upholstered desk drawer in search of a cigar.
"I'll transmit the money back to you as soon as I get there."
Bruni took little notice as he flaunted a dark, walnut-brown cigar, which he promptly stuck in his mouth.
"As soon as you get there, huh?"
Krey nodded as Bruni fumbled around in his jacket for a cigar lighter. Bruni said nothing as he pulled out his lighter, which was about the diameter and thickness of a large coin, then pressed it against the end of his cigar. After taking several puffs, the cigar began to glow and smoke. Bruni tapped the lighter against the edge of an ashtray to knock off the excess ash, then returned the lighter to his pocket. Meanwhile, Krey waited anxiously for an answer.
After savoring the first few puffs of his cigar, Bruni finally turned his attention to Krey.
"Ahdo you, per chance, have a half a million marks waiting for you at this god-forsaken place you're going?"
"Well," Krey admitted, "It's not waiting for me... but I'll send it as soon as I can earn it."
"Earn it?" Bruni chuckled. "Those frontier planets are impoverished. You'll be lucky to earn enough to live onmuch less pay back some chump who was stupid enough to lend you a small fortune."
Krey began to get indignant.
"That's a hell of an attitude, Bruni. What about all the times I helped you? Who towed that meteor that made you a fortune?"
"Who paid for it?"
"Who ferried your customers around all last summer?"
"Who paid for it?"
"Who took the fall for your illegal landing violation?"
"Who paid for it? You see, Krey..." Bruni's voice was beginning to get a little too coy for his own good, "Business is business, and lending a fortune to someone who ain't coming back is, well... stupid."
"For Christ's sake," Krey argued, "This is me you're talking to! Come onHelp me out here!"
"Nope."
Krey let out a sigh of disgust, "Well, at least point me in the right directiongive me some advice!"
"Alright. You want some advice, I'll give you some advice: Go out and get laid while you're a free man. Because in an hour and a half the UN is going to track down those cufflets on your wrist, haul you off by the nuts, seal you in a holding canister, and store you in their warehouse for a very long time. As for the money..." Bruni emphasized his point with a slow, shallow shaking of the head, "No one is going to lend you anything while you have those cufflets on... You're a marked man."
Krey pointed an angry finger at the friend who suddenly became a stranger, "If I had the time I'd drag you down to the gym and knock the living liver out of you."
"Well you don't have the time. And, frankly, neither do I. I trust you can find your own way out."
"One of these days, Bruni"
"What?"
There was an awkward moment of tension and silence as the two men stared each other down. Bruni thought for a moment that Krey might resort to a barbaric act of violence, right there in his wealth-lined office. But to his relief, Krey simply turned and walked out into the corridor.

Cassie hurried through Unli's crowded city Common on her way to the nearest computer annex. The Common was an enormous, kidney-shaped plaza at the center of Unli where people came to socialize and enjoy a rare glimpse of foliage. In many ways, the Common resembled an artificial park. Numerous benches and pavilions were scattered about to provide gathering places for Unli's citizens, and a small stage was erected where poets and modern folk singers often catered to modest crowds. Because of the need to conserve space, however, monuments and memorials were noticeably scarce; the most impressive of which was a life-size statue commemorating a World War Five general, who was accredited with ending the bloodiest war in human history.
The Common also had its share of greenery. Here and there were numerous, irregular-shaped gardens where a wide variety of foliage thrived in hydroponic environments. Vines grew up the sides of some pavilions, and foliage adorned the tops of nearby shops and offices. The thriving greenery was accented by several small birds, which roamed freely under the giant dome, and three or four resident squirrels who foraged on the ground for tid- bits cast by a friendly hand.
Cassie did not slow her pace as she looked up through the smoke-tinted dome, which rose some 200 feet above the Common. Just beyond the dome, she could see the fragile blue crest of Earth, which was just nearing first quarter. An uneasy, disheartening feeling came over her as she realized that she would never again see a full Earth.
Cassie noticed that several people cast disapproving stares at her cufflets as she entered a computer annex at the edge of the Common. Although she was technically free, the albatross on her wrists marked her as a criminal of one sort or anotherand people had the tendency to assume the worst; such as a murder or terrorist. She was anxiously waiting for the moment when the cufflets would fall off on their own accord, which would happen as soon as she left UN jurisdiction.
The computer annex was crowded with patrons; some were engaged in bank transactions, others were making travel arrangements, sending or receiving mail, making purchases, updating wills, and any one of countless other activities that took place at the annex. Cassie's business at the annex, however, was something of a different nature. She hurried past several rows of crowded computer stations in search of an open link to the civil computer network.
After a short and frantic search, Cassie managed to locate an open computer. She stepped up to the station, then plugged her Model 7 into an auxiliary slot on the console. The computer responded with the message, `WARNING: SECURITY BREACH!'
Cassie quickly pressed a key to clear the message, then looked around to make sure that no one had seen it. She knew that the message was only a local deterrent; the Model 7 prevented the breach from being detected by authorities at the network. Cassie had full right to use the civil network and had an authorized log-on code, but she decided to bypass log-on procedures to mask the nature of her inquiry. Satisfied that no- one had seen the security message, she returned to the business at hand.
Cassie entered a series of commands at the keyboard to inquire about the location, status, and scheduled departure time of RQ-733. She was well aware of the fact that Krey had less than an hour and fifteen minutes to launch the ship, and assumed that preparations were well under way. In order to pull off a successful theft of RQ-733, she would have to interdict at just the right point in time; she had to wait until it was fueled and flight ready before she made her move to electronically seize the vessel.
After what seemed like an eternity, the computer finally displayed the data she had requested. A sick feeling churned deep in her stomach as, line after line, the stark reality of the situation hit her square in the face; RQ-733 was shut down, de-fueled, and drifting aimlessly in a mooring orbit high above the lunar surface. According to the computer, there had been no activity associated with RQ-733 in the past two weeks, and absolutely no preparations for flight were currently underway; no flight plan was filed, no fuel load was purchased, no support vehicles dispatchednothing.
A chill ran down Cassie's spine as she continued with the inquiry. The computer went on to display the specifications and current operating condition of RQ-733. It was an ancient, World War Five vintage fighter; a Sikorsky F-1126 Star Saber. There were only six built, all of which were either destroyed during the war, or scrapped-out when the war ended nearly a century ago. It was a massive craft and, by no means, economical.
The bad news continued line after line as the computer reported on the craft's readiness. Communication systems were marginal, navigation systems could be operated on an emergency basis only, two of the three massive time distortion engines were out, one of the conventional engines was out, the copilot's hydraulic system was out, all three flight control computers were completely missing, both auxiliary power units were out...
Cassie terminated the report. She quickly entered a series of commands to see if any other space traffic was leaving within the next hour and a half. The computer generated a list of 26 vehicles, which were either spaceliners, diplomatic vehicles, or sub-light crafts incapable of breaching the time barrier. There were no private vehicles suitable for snatching.
Cassie pulled her Model 7 out of the console then stared at the blank screen for a while. She could not bear the thought of being locked in a dark, cramped, featureless canister with an over-active case of Tripolean Syndrome eating away at her sanity. She turned, then slowly walked out of the annex with her head sadly lowered.
As Cassie stepped out into the Common, she began to wonder about her mark, Kreymec M. Altson; he too, had a grace period that was about to run out. She remembered that Krey told the judge that he was going to fly RQ-733 to the frontier planets, but, apparently, his plans had changed. She wondered how Krey planned on finding his way to the frontier planetsand if she might be able to tag along.
Cassie slowly strolled to a stop as she began pressing buttons on her Model 7, which was still in communication with the UN mainframe. After a brief pause, the mainframe sent a reply to her earpiece; Krey was about a quarter-mile away, walking south down Wargentin Corridor. Cassie slipped the Model 7 into her pocket, then started for Wargentin Corridor.