Descending Road - DOUG MACNEE by Dana W. Paxson

DOUG MACNEE

2411 CE

The EmpCo guard grinned at Doug, opening the steel door aft as the transport shuttle shuddered to a stop. The bitter air of Novosibirsk blasted in, slicing through Doug‘s thin uniform as if he were naked. He sat, shivering, while Russian guards wearing small EmpCo emblems climbed into the shuttle and began unlocking the prisoners’ shackles from their inward-facing seats. The lead guard carried the head end of a long chain, supported by those who followed him in; as each prisoner’s leg-shackles were unlocked from the shuttle’s brackets, a guard immediately locked them onto the chain.

Doug‘s shivering got stronger. He had to urinate, but that wouldn’t be possible for another hour at least, since the prison was some distance from the railhead. He prayed that his bladder wouldn’t let go on the way, because it would earn him a beating and a night in his soiled clothing, the stench ripening until it made his nostrils burn. Prison rules.

The rules here were the same as in the States, the same as in China and Ethiopia and Bolivia, the same everywhere. Prisons were universal now; nations exchanged classified groups of prisoners, trading them according to their perceived abilities, crimes, and attitudes. Multinational firms ran the prison business at considerable profit. EmpCo, The Employment Company, was the largest of them, providing both American and Russian guards for this transfer from Upstate New York to far-eastern Russia. Prisoners who didn’t speak the local language like natives never got far from prison.

“Okay, students,” the American guard said. He nudged the Russian next to him, and then said in Russian to the prisoners, “Zhiv budyesh’, no yebat’ nye zakhochyesh’.” The Russian guard laughed, leaned nearer and said something that made the American laugh in return.

Doug stood; the need to urinate got worse. “Face the door!” came the command. They all turned toward the open after end of the shuttle, where a ramp led down onto barren winter ground, a thin crust of snow covering a few sparse dead weeds. “Straight out to the mark and stop!” and they all began the short-chain shuffle that their leg shackles required.

As they filed down the ramp, the man beside Doug muttered, “What did he say to us?”

Doug translated. “He said, ‘You’ll survive, but you won’t feel like fucking.’“

The other man, lean and elderly but tough-looking, scowled. “I was here three years ago, back from the Laogai. Compared to that, this is--“

“Zatknis'!” called a Russian guard. “Shut it!”

The prisoners stood in two lines under a bleak, low-hanging sun, in a bare patch of land. A few windowless, one-story buildings were scattered off in the distance. The April wind bit into Doug; his teeth chattered, and his knees began knocking together uncontrollably. More double lines of prisoners filed off the shuttle train until over six hundred men and two hundred women were lined up in their pale-blue prison uniforms, shaking and waiting.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	DOUG MACNEE 2411 CE The EmpCo guard grinned at Doug, opening the steel door aft as the transport shuttle shuddered to a stop. The bitter air of Novosibirsk blasted in, slicing through Doug‘s thin uniform as if he were naked. He sat, shivering, while Russian guards wearing small EmpCo emblems climbed into the shuttle and began unlocking the prisoners’ shackles from their inward-facing seats. The lead guard carried the head end of a long chain, supported by those who followed him in; as each prisoner’s leg-shackles were unlocked from the shuttle’s brackets, a guard immediately locked them onto the chain. Doug‘s shivering got stronger. He had to urinate, but that wouldn’t be possible for another hour at least, since the prison was some distance from the railhead. He prayed that his bladder wouldn’t let go on the way, because it would earn him a beating and a night in his soiled clothing, the stench ripening until it made his nostrils burn. Prison rules. The rules here were the same as in the States, the same as in China and Ethiopia and Bolivia, the same everywhere. Prisons were universal now; nations exchanged classified groups of prisoners, trading them according to their perceived abilities, crimes, and attitudes. Multinational firms ran the prison business at considerable profit. EmpCo, The Employment Company, was the largest of them, providing both American and Russian guards for this transfer from Upstate New York to far-eastern Russia. Prisoners who didn’t speak the local language like natives never got far from prison. “Okay, students,” the American guard said. He nudged the Russian next to him, and then said in Russian to the prisoners, “Zhiv budyesh’, no yebat’ nye zakhochyesh’.” The Russian guard laughed, leaned nearer and said something that made the American laugh in return. Doug stood; the need to urinate got worse. “Face the door!” came the command. They all turned toward the open after end of the shuttle, where a ramp led down onto barren winter ground, a thin crust of snow covering a few sparse dead weeds. “Straight out to the mark and stop!” and they all began the short-chain shuffle that their leg shackles required. As they filed down the ramp, the man beside Doug muttered, “What did he say to us?” Doug translated. “He said, ‘You’ll survive, but you won’t feel like fucking.’“ The other man, lean and elderly but tough-looking, scowled. “I was here three years ago, back from the Laogai. Compared to that, this is--“ “Zatknis'!” called a Russian guard. “Shut it!” The prisoners stood in two lines under a bleak, low-hanging sun, in a bare patch of land. A few windowless, one-story buildings were scattered off in the distance. The April wind bit into Doug; his teeth chattered, and his knees began knocking together uncontrollably. More double lines of prisoners filed off the shuttle train until over six hundred men and two hundred women were lined up in their pale-blue prison uniforms, shaking and waiting.