Anita, I don't know where this came from...dark thoughts at the moment. I think it started with Sassy's new word challenge..lol! Dale, you're a genius with titles. Can you think up one for this?

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Crimion was a rogue planet, a satellite star in the Mars sector. The dead volcanic chambers within its depths housed what was considered human refuge--the univers' criminally insane. No bars of iron were needed in this prison. Anyone able to reach the surface was almost instantaneously dehydrated from heat reaching upwards of 1000 degrees. Turning to dust, souls would be blown by the never-ending winds. This was Behelzabub's realm.

The comparisons to hell didn't stop at the surface. The ventilation system in this huge natural cell were adequate at best. When air was particulary lean the inmates would kill each other in the attempt to have more oxygen for themselves. There was no one to stop them. Crimion was a self-contained system. Food was distributed three times a day by conveyence, controlled by a centrally located computer. There were no guards. There was no need.

Great huge carriers escorted the damned to the planet at 3 month intervals, after they had been sentenced by the League of Justice-a group of 12 representatives from the two known solar systems. By the time a criminal was brought before this court, it was only for public declaration. Micah Sorenson stood on a platform in the center of the court, spotlighted by a paralyzing beam of light that centered on the lower cerebral cortex near his brain stem. There were no cuffs on his wrists, no chains on his ankles.

For a split second after sentencing and the light beam had been shut off, a huge wave of rage shook Micah's massive frame. It was quickly contained in a soundproof and inpenetrable shield that was nearly invisible. Three feet squared violence control. His screams were not heard but bounced off the energy beam's parimeter and echoed back into his ears. Blood trickled from his broken right ear drum. Crouching in pain, Micah's rage turned into great, rasping sobs...

(To be continued)

                                             (c) Linda Gayton 2005

Struggling for air and a regain of his senses, Micah swiped blood and sweat from his face with a rough-textured sleeve of his prison garb. His head fell forward in the 'cage' which encased him. There was nothing to rest his head against but his knees, which he encircled with his arms to try and stop from shaking. Alone and in the dark except for the hazy outlines of his cell, he awaited transport to Satan's Moon. Waves of pain and the after-affects of the adrenaline rush kept him barely on the edge of conciousness. He drifted off to dream...

Jessime'... Her long ebony hair flowing in trails down her back and caressing the contours of her form... Laughter like the sound of the rivers of his youth in the last remaining wild country...the smooth warmth of her skin...her tender touch that melted his cares... He bent to kiss her lips and tasted blood and held her lifeless body. Revenge for refusing to deal with arms runners from The Outreach.                  Black market cut-throuts without honor, willing to trade to all for a price. "Jessime'...Jessime'"...his huge fists pummeling the face of her murderer, the sharp crack of facial bones, the spray of blood, over and over until Krac was a faceless corpse...

Tagar officials wasted no time arresting Micah. No tears were shed for his killing of Krac. But he had long escaped their clutches as a black marketeer, hidden by friends and rebel outcasts he had helped in efforts against the Circle of Power. Micah gave no resistance when they came for him as the weight of his greif had robbed him of his will. He was rendered powerless with a stunner to the temple and escorted by shortcraft to a holding cell. There he awaited the sentencing which the League dispensed with cloaked glee. One less threat to an ordered universe.

Micah awoke to the sound of nuclear engines firing aft in a carrier ship. The same shield that held him in the court room held him here. Only the dimensions had changed-it was more like a large cubicle than a box. He lay in a cot on a thin mattress. The bare metal skeletoned walls were filmed with sweat and an eerie green light glowed from them, creating phantoms in the darkness. He could barely make out the form of another passenger laying across from him. The snores barreled echoes in the air. He turned his good ear into the mattress and found the comfort of silence...

To be continued...

(c) Linda Gayton 2005