Twenty - EARTH

It was dark, and the lights of Los Angeles looked like gems scattered on black velvet. Thousands of grav platforms, robolifts and aircars crisscrossed the local sky grid. 

No one paid any particular attention to the unmarked personnel carrier that rode a priority vector in from the east, dropped out of traffic, and landed on a high rise. Three men exited the aircraft. It was gone moments later. 

John Usmos shivered in the early morning air. His fatigues had the word "Prisoner" stenciled on the back, his hands were cuffed in front of him, and chains rattled at his feet. His excort consisted of two MPs, neither of whom was much of a conversationalist. The first, an individual whom John had christened "Dickhead", motioned toward a sudden rectangle of light. "Put your ass in gear, John - we haven't got all day". 

No "sir", no "please", just "put your ass in gear". But that's how it was for prisoners, especially those who were or had been officers. 

John e