As he awaited the lure of the day, he reflected upon the proceedings, the daft courtroom, the curious crowd of gawkers flowing outside the backdoor, the reporters relentlessly watching for opportunities to photograph him looking hateful, disrespectful, or flippant. They were, after all, employees of the Freemen party, the very party that was trying him for treason.
Frank already knew the public's sentiment, and with it the verdict that would likely result from it. He considered himself fortunate that the masses were not the ones now seated in authority high above him, deciding not only guilt or innocence, but also the term of his sentence. As he turned his gaze upward, his face radiated a mixture of meekness and defiance that only a mind-reader could fully decifer, although the judge hardly seemed to notice or even care. The old man was etched in his mind more as a caricature than as a man. The way his face drew back in distaste and his voice quivered in mildly disguised disgust as he announced the verdict. The way his large head seemed to unnaturally float above his shoulders as if it needed no support, totally self-righteous, totally self-sufficient.
"Guilty - however, due to provision (k)of the recently passed Human Rights initiative 1202, treason, in the absence of murder, is no longer classified as a capital offense."
The entire courtroom fell incredibly quiet as everyone awaited the sentence pronouncement. The judge remained placid and composed, if also cold and heartless. He would, no doubt, have preferred to have never heard of HR treaty 1202.
"In accordance with the new regulations, the prisoner will be banished to sector 33 Planet Randon for 30 years. Given his age, the nature of the planet, and the rate at which the political/social environment changes on earth, it has been judged that well before the completion of his sentence, he and his ideas will have been rendered completely harmless."
That was 17 long years ago. Although he now lived in virtual isolation on Randon, he assumed the Liberation Front must have been quelled, homogonized, or even assimilated into the mainstream by now. Otherwise the Freemen would have surely blocked his probation offer last year. He still considered accepting it at times. But to qualify, he would have to complete the rehabilitation program euphemistically referred to as "re-orientation".
As much as he hated his dingy, daily existence, he still could not hate it more than he loved himself. Re-oriented people never quite looked fully human. He had seen friends graduate from the program (it was a reoriented friend that had turned him in) and had long since decided to never voluntarily submit to it. Once again, he had 1202 to thank for his choice in the matter. He stubbornly clung to what seemed to others an utterly irrational right to refuse re-orientation. His defiance only served to harden the authorities against him. Nevertheless, alone - dying - crying - whatever, he simply could not let them transform him into a mindless automaton, a harmless half-wit. A walking-dead shell of his former self.
Watch for the next chapter by 1/10/98!
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