What am I in for? Does it really matter?

Any time you visit a State, you take your chances. Maybe you wear the wrong clothes, or use the wrong substances, or carry the tools you need to protect yourself from the more common thugs. Eventually the odds catch up with you, and the uncommon thugs who call themselves the government kidnap you.

Last week, the odds caught up with me.

They were very polite about it, like they weren't doing anything wrong. Perhaps in their twisted moral view, they weren't. They read me my rights--what a joke! I knew my rights better than they did, including my right not to be locked in a urine-soaked barred cell charged with a non-crime, stripped of my defenses and unable to contact my family. All I could do was wait for rescue.

Why did I let them take me? It's not like I had a choice. You can defend yourself against a common kidnapper or armed robber, but the agents of a State always hunt in packs, and out in the open. I was kidnapped right in front of hundreds of citizens, and not a single one showed the slightest interest in helping me. Flashing lights and a badge, just look the other way, nothing to see here. One thing's for sure, I'm never risking doing business here again.

They spent a lot of time looking over my Mutual Defense card as they rummaged through my wallet. Surely they had seen one before and knew what it meant, but you never know when you get to the middle of a State. Not a lot of free men venture this far inland, but the policy is still good. If they had any clue or brains they would have apologized and sent me on my way. It's spelled out in seven languages on the card, the English version being:

The bearer of this card has a valid insurance policy with Mutual Defense through ______ (date.) This policy guarantees payment to any harmed by the bearer, up to ______ kg gold or equivalent. Damages will be determined by a mutually agreed-upon arbitrator, and paid upon release of bearer. Bearer will be rescued from kidnappers, including governments.

Hardly anyone has to pay ransom any more. With honest kidnappers it made sense, because they had their victims hidden in a forest or cave, and were willing to kill the victim to prevent rescue, but hardly any of them are stupid enough to kidnap Mutual Defense clients these days--not after what happened to those Columbian rebels. States aren't quite so bright. They lock their victims up in the middle of town, or off a main highway, in well-signposted facilities called "jails." Unlike honest kidnappers, they have to keep an aura of respectability. It looks pretty bad to kill prisoners in cold blood, and also guarantees a lot less local tourism and other business from free men. Still, it could happen, so you hedge your bets.

Mutual Defense had probably already approached several guards with ransom offers. They have standing orders from me to do so. A couple of years salary, that's a lot of dollars to them, a few kilograms of gold to Mutual Defense, I figure. I never do business in fiat money any more, so I really have no clue. Almost everyone accepts gold receipts from the best known banks, even here where I've heard it's quite illegal. I probably wasn't charged with carrying the ones in my wallet, as they most likely disappeared before my wallet got to the police station. The problem is, the guards tend to think of these offers as bribes, not ransom, and take perverse pride in being honest and unbribeable. The dishonest ones are actually more honest with themselves than the honest ones, they're just hard to find with the kind of screenings the State does these days when choosing its agents.

I wondered if my family was worried. Dylan was going to be seven the next week, so I hoped I would be home by then. If not, I'm choosing a new defense company next year. Mutual may be the biggest (and best) now, but someone has to give the competition a chance if they start to get sloppy. I was told I was allowed a phone call, but they wouldn't let me dial out of the country, unless I could pay for it. Maybe I should have had a few dollars on me after all. I tried to call the local Mutual Defense agent to make it easier for them to locate me, but that number was on a "blacklist." Go figure. So I ordered a pizza from a local establishment I used to frequent, and put it on my tab. That was two days earlier, and I was beginning to suspect that I would never get it.

Mutual Defense should have located me by brute-force review of satellite footage by then, but I wasn't all that worried yet. They were probably waiting for a good opportunity like a transfer, to minimize risk to me, the rescue team, and innocent bystanders (the other prisoners, of course, not the guards.) I just kept my eyes and ears open, and intended to be ready to go.

Presently another pair of guards came along. I wondered if these two were offered bribes, or if they were too indoctrinated to even bother with. The fatter one unlocked my cell, and told me to come with him. I toyed with the idea of killing them and running out but quickly evaluated my chance of escaping as minuscule. I knew that if I ignored them I would be dragged out in a most undignified manner, so I went along. One (the fat one, I think) cuffed my hands behind my back, but they left my legs free. They led me to the end of the cell block, opposite the end I came in, and outside. The sunlight was instantly blinding, but only for a moment as I was shoved unceremoniously into the rear of a white van backed up to the door. Just as I gathered my feet, the van lurched forward, no doubt on purpose, and I was slammed against the back door, resulting in what turned out to be a hellacious welt on my left elbow. That's when I noticed the van's other occupant, laughing his ass off.

I lurched to the bench opposite the stranger, braced myself with my feet as best I could, and frowned at him.

"What's your name, buddy?" he asked.

"Frank," I replied, "and yours?"

"Skip." He held up his cuffed hands and chuckled, "Yes, that's my given name, honest to goodness."

"Well, Skip," I asked, "any idea where they're taking us?"

"To the courthouse," he answered, "to plead."

"Plead?" I asked, incredulous, "what on earth do they expect me to plead for?"

"You know--guilty, or innocent. Or 'no contest,' whatever that is."

I thought about this. "I'm going to 'plead' 'irrelevant.'"

"What the hell does that mean?" asked Skip.

"Well, I never agreed to refrain from doing any of the things they kidnapped me for, they harmed no one, so I find the fact that I did them irrelevant to my kidnapping."

Just then we went over a bone-jarring bump. My head almost hit the ceiling, and just as I landed we took a hard right, resulting in yet another hard, painful contact between my left elbow and the floor. It started to throb. Skip, who was magically still attached to his bench (to this day I know not how--I guess he had a lot of practice) was laughing even harder than the first time.

"That means we're here," he managed to get out, trying to catch his breath.

Once again, I went from semi-darkness to bright daylight as the doors to the van were yanked open.

"Out!" bellowed a middle-aged woman in a black uniform, "or I use this thing."

The "thing" was a neural prod. Absolutely agonizing from under 10 feet--I know, I own two. One good hit and you'll cringe at the sight of one for a year. I cringed, I moved. Skip moved even faster than I did.

She walked behind us into the building, our only escort, telling us which way to go at each turn. We went through massive glass and metal doors into a marble foyer (all paid for with stolen wealth, I was certain,) then through a serious steel, barred door into a featureless white room, maybe 2 meters square. I turned around just in time to catch the slamming door on the tip of my nose. This was turning out to be a painful day.

"Holding cell," Skip explained, "until our hearing. Anyhow, what you said back there, in the van,"

"Yes?" I prompted.

"You're one of those anarchists, aren't you?"

"Depends which ones you mean," I replied.

"You got no country. You got a defense agency. That kind."

"That's right," I told him, "I'm a free man."

"That's illegal, you know," he informed me, grinning, "not that you probably care. Damn! Now you've confessed to the bugs, too. I'm sorry I asked."

"It's okay," I assured him, "the contents of my wallet told them all they needed. When do you think they'll let me go?"

"Let you go?" he asked, incredulous. "They don't let you go if you're an anarchist. They lock you up as an enemy of the State!"

"You mean to tell me," I asked him, "that they've got defense agency customers locked up around here? Long-term?"

"Sure they do, " he responded, "how else can they keep everyone paying their taxes instead of paying a hundredth that amount to a defense agency?"

"I think you've been misled," I told him, "I would have been told if there were a large number of unresolved kidnappings in this area, and I would never have come here. Come on, do you know that they're still locked up?"

"No, it's just what I heard," Skip admitted, "what the papers all said. Maybe if I had the internet..."

"Your not on the net?" I asked. This time, I was incredulous.

"Too expensive. Costs what I make in a week to get it for a month. Before taxes."

"Now, I know wages are low, here, but they can't be that low. Where I live, unlimited access for a month costs... " I did a bit of math, "...about what I pay my maintenance staff every ten minutes. The cost of two beers in a bar."

"Well, see, we have this utility, so everyone can get it at a fair price, only hardly anyone can get it, you see." He grinned again.

"Why don't you use a satellite link?" I asked. "Mine worked just fine. It's encrypted and very difficult to jam."

"Well," he chuckled, "seems that's stealing from the utility. Illegal as hell. You'll get 10 years if you're caught with one of those things."

"And here I am," I said, sighing. "That, I didn't know. And mine was clipped to my belt in plain view. Now I know what they meant by 'contraband.'"

"So," he asked, "you really think they're gonna let you go?"

"I don't know about that. Mutual Defense told me this area was 'slightly above average' risk, and that they had never lost a client here. I didn't ask if they had been released, ransomed, or rescued."

"Damn. And you pay no taxes? Damn. Where do I sign up?"

"Tell you what," I began, but was rudely interrupted by the door opening hard into the small of my back (stupid, stupid, stupid!)

Our guard was back, and with an even less sunny disposition. "I have to separate you two," he announced. "You!" she pointed the prod at me, "up and out."

I climbed slowly to my feet (my back really hurt) and walked out to the hallway. I was led into an adjacent, identical white cell, where I spent the next two hours bored out of my mind. When the door opened again, my female friend was back, and this time just gestured to the door. I walked in front of her across the hallway, most of my attention on the neural prod I couldn't even see, through a set of thick, wood and brass doors into a huge room, easily 20 meters wide by 30 long, paneled floor to ceiling in what looked like seriously expensive hardwoods. I was told to sit in a chair behind a small table at the front, next to an older man with immaculate hair and a cheap blue suit. I wanted to talk to him, but he wouldn't turn to face me.

Within a minute, a voice crackled tinnily from a speaker built into the table, "All rise for his honor Bruce P. Romano." The man in the blue suit stood up, as did everyone else in the room. As I was processing the words, streaks of agony suddenly ran from the back of my neck to my buttocks. It stopped just as suddenly, and a female voice whispered in my ear, "That was on two. Face front, do what you're told, or I prod you again. I just set it to five. It goes to ten." I stood up. I faced the front. I paid a great deal of attention to the little speaker.

A short, slender man of about sixty (I think--most people don't have longevity treatments here, they can't afford them) entered from the side and sat behind the ornate wood piece, an overblown podium, at the front of the room. The speaker crackled to life again, "Court is now in session, please be seated." I sat. Fast. "The defendant may rise." I rose, faster, hoping they meant me. I had no intention of getting prodded again.

I stood in silence for maybe half a minute while the honorable etc. shuffled papers. I decided they were waiting for me to say something, so I said, "Thank you. I am a customer of Mutual Defense. I'm sure that my policy can pay any 'fines' that have, ugh!"

Five hurt way worse than three, and I found myself slumped awkwardly on my chair. That lovely voice was whispering again, "Don't speak unless you're told to, always address him as 'your honor,' now stand up and shut up. I've set it to six."

I stood up. 'His honor' spoke, "Now, if you're finished being rude and stupid, we can begin. You have been charged with possessing three illegal weapons, one illegal electronic device, two forged documents, and possession of an illegal defense contract. The maximum penalty for the last charge is indefinite imprisonment. How do you plead?"

I considered pleading "irrelevant," as I had told Skip, but the neural prod, that I could somehow subconsciously sense, was telling me not to. As I considered what I could say, the man in the cheap suit stood up and said, "My client pleads 'guilty,' your honor, and asks for the mercy of the court. He also wishes to apologize to your honor for his previous unacceptable behavior, and hopes that in exchange for his plea, he can be held in the onsite facilities, which are somewhat nicer than those he recently occupied, until his sentencing."

I was, to say the least, stunned. I was almost able to overcome my fear of the neural prod to protest, when I noticed that mister cheap suit had, while speaking, grasped the inside of my elbow and was using the common defense code, that Mutual Defense had strongly encouraged me to learn, to spell out one word, "I-E-T-Q-U-I-E-T-Q-U, "over and over again. I kept quiet.

"Well," responded 'his honor,' this is quite unusual. Are you certain of this action, and aware of what it implies?"

S-A-Y-Y-E-S.

"Yes, your honor, I do."

"Very well," he said. "I am ordering this defendant to be held overnight in the basement lockup. Sentencing will be at 2:00 tomorrow afternoon." He picked up a hammer and struck his podium with it. "Next case."

As I was led out of the room, I heard 'his honor' saying, "Well, Skip, back again. Skip Millworth, you are charged, again, with operating a charity without a license, and conspiring to evade taxes. How do you plead?" I was gladdened to know that he wasn't a real criminal, because he seemed like such a nice guy.

The next few hours passed uneventfully. My attorney didn't get to tell me anything else because he stayed in to (I assume) represent Skip. I was led to an elevator, then to a cell which was, admittedly, far nicer than my previous accommodations. It had a privacy screen in front of the toilet, actual padding on the bed, and my dinner was quite acceptable. I was also the only visible occupant, so I wouldn't be kept awake by incessant talking and singing. However, a cell is still a cell. After I finished eating, I lay on the bed awake, thinking about my family, for several hours before I managed to fall asleep.

I was awakened by the feeling of icy cold water on my side and a hellaciously loud siren. The cells were lit with eerie reddish lights punctuated by blinding strobes. In moments, a guard carrying a neural prod came running down the hallway, unlocked my cell, and said, "Move it! Fire Alarm! Follow me, and don't try anything funny." We passed the elevator and entered a dimly-lit stairwell. The guard fumbled for his flashlight, then inexplicably slumped to his knees and toppled forward. At that moment, I felt a hand on my elbow, spelling "N-O-T-D-E-A-D-M-O-V-E."

I followed a shadow up the darkened stairs, not even pausing at ground level, but continuing up six more flights. We climbed a metal ladder to a hatchway on the stairwell ceiling, which opened silently to reveal an overcast night sky. We continued to a waiting craft the like of which I've not seen to this day. It was jet black, angular yet sleek, and no bigger than a sports car. It had two seats, inline, and I was helped over a high sill into the rear seat. I started to catch my breath from the unexpected stair climb, but the moment the hatch closed I was pressed back into my seat with more acceleration than I've ever felt before or after. The thrust lasted less than half a minute, then cut to free fall. Luckily, I've been in free fall before, so I didn't fill the cockpit with last night's dinner.

"Welcome aboard, Frank" he said. I instantly recognized my attorney's voice--and wished I had recognized the feel of his signing in the stairwell. "Ross Stillman, Consolidated Defense, at your service."

"Thanks, Ross. Mutual sub the job out to you, then?"

"Nope, they put out a general warrant, I was in the right place at the right time, and I took it. Takes a lot of gold to pay for this baby."

"What in the hell is this thing, anyhow?" I asked.

"It's a suborbital rocket. It's nearly invisible to radar, and will outrun anything the states have got anyhow. Produced by a free company, they won't sell to states," he explained.

"So where are you taking me, anyhow?"

"Straight home, Frank. Second burn in about 10 minutes, and I'll keep it down to two gees. I'll try not to scorch your grass too much, too."

I took a week off when I got home. I spent every day with my family, playing in the pool, reading on the sofa, eating the delicious meals that I used to take for granted. My bed (not to mention its other occupant) was absolute luxury, and something I hope never to go that long away from again.

I promised myself I would never go back there, but I'm going one last time. I've taken a week of lessons from Mutual Defense that I should have taken before, on how to fit in, stay low, and not get picked up. You see, I have a contract to deliver to Skip Millworth, and I sure hope he signs it.