ou are hereby sentenced to the maximum term of twenty-five years incarceration in the maximum security Long Orbit Criminal Correction Facility."

The judge tapped his finger on the gavel pad and that sound, a digitally sampled and amplified relic of unknown origin, to me, was my life ticking away into nothing. The judge tapped harder, trying to overcome the clamour of voices from the crowd. The noise rose up and washed over everything like an incoming tide, before it ended abruptly when the headset was ripped away from my head. I was back in my room again and there was Sam in his white, freshly pressed cover-alls. He was twirling the headset in one hand, like a circus juggler. In the other hand he held a super-dermic injector, as malevolent as a weapon. I knew what it contained. The last week had been a nightmare ride of interrogations between bouts of extreme nausea, when coming out of sedation, and the drifting, empty bliss of being under sedation. It all started with an event, a supposed crime, of which only I knew I was innocent. But that was irrelevant now. I was beyond pleading, beyond appeal.

I came back to the present when Sam stopped twirling the headset.

Looking at me warily and waving the dermic, he said, "Sorry mate, but you heard it. I gotta do this."

To me, the dermic was as good as a gun: either way, my life was over. I sighed and held out my arm.

"Nah, come on. Other one. I know about your little trick with the scarring there. This thing don't work too well through scars like yours."

I rolled my eyes in mock indignation and proffered the other limb.

"How did you get those scars anyway?"

After a heartbeat, I said, "I guess if you inject me with that thing, you'll never know."

He paused a moment, and grinned widely. "You're a slippery one, aren't you?"

I shrugged.

With a sound like a slap, and the feel of being poked by a finger, the sedative went to work. As night closed in on me I saw a memory of an old school teacher leaning into my face, poking my arm and snarling, "Where's your homework, luvvy?"

And that was it. I awoke here, naked, clamped into this chair, and staring out into space. I do not know exactly how long I sat in the chair, staring through the window. It might have been days, or even weeks. A lot of stuff went through my mind, but it must have been really slow going, because by the time I finished thinking, I had a beard. It was not a very long one, mind you, but a beard nevertheless. As I sat there I watched the stars, revealed in all their naked glory, like me. They were like eyes staring back at me, unblinking. Yet they seemed to glitter with emotions. Or messages. I felt that if only I could understand their language I would know more... more about everything.

Anyway, finally I looked around at my new home-away-from-home. There was nothing much to see. It was like a long stainless steel corridor. Everything was stainless steel: a bench; a bunk, with a black vinyl mattress and no linen; a trough; the chair I was sitting in, with its black vinyl padding; a computer console in front of the chair; and my window out to space.

With shaking hands and legs, I unclamped myself and stood up. And slumped back into the chair again, in slow motion, as a sickening wave of dizziness washed through me. I was seeing stars, but they were black and moving around. My muscles felt stiff and little stabs of pain flicked through my joints. At least I knew I was alive. I tried it again, but slowly this time. Bit by bit I eased myself up out of the chair, and eventually I was standing. I bounced on my toes a few times, and could feel my weight almost leaving the floor. So, they had provided some gravity - perhaps a third of a gee - unless it was due to acceleration, of course. I took a few steps, and tottered like my grandfather, until I realised that the direction of gravity was at an odd angle to the floor. Or was it a deck?

So walking along my corridor was a bit like walking up a stainless steel hill on the moon. A slow tour of inspection revealed that all the surfaces and corners, furniture included, were seamlessly integrated, as if I was in a moulded container with a transparent lid. I felt like a fly in a bottle.

There were two faucets protruding from the rim of the trough, one labelled "Water" and the other labelled "Food". And no utensils. Great - sticky hands for the next twenty-five years. Beside the trough was a waterless toilet - stainless steel, of course, and cold. Yes, all the necessities of life.

A thought passed through my mind like the face of a stranger in a passing train, Even if I could tear off enough of the vinyl to plait a rope, there was not enough gravity to hang myself.

My voice echoed as I laughed aloud. I was not really considering suicide, but given the grim décor, I thought I should keep my options open.

I turned back to the window feeling rather forlorn. Stars, more and more like eyes, stared at me. The eyes of the Gods. They glittered with their diamond light, just beyond my comprehension - red, blue, green, yellow.

My eyes dropped, and caught the empty blackness of the computer screen, darker than the void outside. I was surprised: these types of computer interfaces, with keyboard and flip-up screen, were ancient technology. I was used to the more up-to-date, wear anytime, take anywhere, headset and gloves of modern systems. This one was probably somewhere in its thirties, and looking it, somewhat like me.

With a shrug, I bounced over, vaulting the back of the chair to land in its sterile arms. I flipped the computer's power switch and, after a bit of electronic mumbling, it presented me with the ubiquitous face of Windows 2024. Christ, that made the thing closer to forty years old, or more. People pay a fortune for working antiques like this, back on Earth.

After a moment, a stylised rings-of-Saturn logo appeared and an androgynous voice started droning, "Welcome to the Long Orbit Criminal Correction Facility prisoner..."

There was a pause filled with scratchy white noise.

"... two... one... six... four... two... four... seven... one... zero... four... nine... Orlando... Carmichael. You have... nine thousand one hundred and fourteen days of incarceration remaining. There are... three thousand six hundred and forty days of the current orbit remaining. There are seven hundred and eighteen days remaining until resupply."

The voice was so neutral that my attention wandered, even in those few seconds. But the last word jumped out at me. I pressed the logo on the screen and the voice started again. It was really strange, but I had to fight to keep focussed on that voice. It was so bland, so slippery, that my mind kept sliding off into other thoughts and I would have to wrench it back. But I caught the last sentences. Two years to resupply on a ten year orbit. Resupply - what did that mean? I knew, from publicity broadcasts, that I was a passenger, with hundreds of others, on a prison ship that was essentially shaped like an enormous spiky ball. Each spike was a cell like mine, with a view out into the stars. But I had never had any reason to realise that the ships were resupplied intra-orbit.

The possibilities were intriguing.

I looked down at the computer again, and something dawned on me. The white noise during that little presentation must have been interference. It was retrieving information via a communications link to Earth, or somewhere. Being the cynic I am, I assumed that there was also the means to transmit information from the computer, after all, surely they would want to monitor, observe, their inmates. This would mean that with the right software I could also send and receive. I checked the filing system, but found only the standard office automation and internet software of the time. What was I supposed to do - write my memoirs and publish them? Or perhaps a full confession? But then I remembered that, although the software was old, it had some pretty sophisticated programming facilities built into it. And the internet contained a wealth of useful goodies. So many possibilities.

Okay, I decided, it was time to get down to the business of extricating myself from an untenable situation. I stood up and wandered over to the kitchen - as good a name as any - and served myself a handful of lunch. It came out like striped toothpaste, and sat there looking most unappetising. I sniffed. It smelled like... like fish, baked beans, custard, steak, vegetable soup, and cough medicine, all in one slimy pile. Closing my eyes, I shovelled it into my mouth. I should not have been surprised at its lack of flavour. It was as plain and generic as everything else was here, but at least it was palatable. After a quick wash and a drink of water, I was ready for business.

I walked up the hill to the end of the road and dropped to my hands and knees. With the eyes of the Gods looking on - and I wondered who else's - I commenced a centimetre-by-centimetre close-up examination of my little home.

After all, it must have some secrets to reveal to one who is patient, and has all the time under the sun.