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Twelve!"
    Quell had looked up, startled. The Band of Twelve. The original unconnectible dissidents, the legendary founders of the Islander movement. As a child in Manila, Quell had memorized their names before
he had learned long division. Years later, his proctors would peel back
the onionskin and reveal a number of unpleasant truths about the Band
of Twelve-three were convicted thieves, one was a rapist, and five of
them were tax evaders. But none of that had mattered to Quell in the
middle of the prison tumult. Remember the Band of Twelve! That familiar
morsel of propaganda had been like a taste of home. He had lunged in
that direction.

    The voice had belonged to a young Islander named Plithy who had
been cringing behind a structural support pillar. He had greasy brown
hair and the posture you might expect from a zombie. Quell had followed him out of the battle towards the unconnectible level of the
prison, head-butting a charging connectible in the process.
    The prison itself was your basic nightmare of design by committee:
lots of long corridors and useless alcoves. But strangely, there were no
doors or locks anywhere to be found, and no sign of the Defense and Wellness Council either. Quell had followed the boy through the labyrinth,
weaving around glazed-over and disaffected Islanders by the score. Finally
they had arrived at a room with a bunk waiting, newly made, along with
a bowl of greasy stew left like a burnt offering. Quell had wanted nothing
less than to be in a stranger's debt, but hunger had trumped any other
considerations. He had sat on the bed and tucked into the bowl.
    "What're you in for?" Quell had muttered between spoonfuls of
stew to the boy, who, disconcertingly, did not leave. It had seemed like
a question prisoners were supposed to ask one another.
    Plithy had plunked his hands into his pockets and looked down at
the floor. "Throwing stones at Council officers," he had said.
    Quell had nearly dropped his spoon. "They put you in here for
that?" Harassing Council officers with stones and bottles was practically a team sport for young men in Manila. Quell had gotten quite
proficient at it himself as a boy.

    "One of the stones hit a commander," Plithy had explained.
    "But-"
    "In the eye."
    The Islander had begun to get the feeling that Plithy was an albatross in search of a neck to latch on to. Evidently the old proverb about
rumor traveling faster than the speed of light was true, because Quell
had soon discovered that the boy had already heard about the altercation with Magan Kai Lee. He had apparently then magnified the story
to mythical proportions and used it as an excuse to dedicate his life to
Quell's service. Quell had wanted no part of it, but he couldn't afford
to be so selective in his friends right then. He had scraped the bowl
clean of gravy, laid back on the bunk, and asked Plithy for the lowdown on the prison. The boy had obliged.
    The Orbital Detention and Rehabilitation Facility that hovered
over Earth's Twelfth Meridian was a simple structure: two wheelshaped platforms connected by a thick axle. The unconnectibles inhabited the "lower" wheel and the connectibles inhabited the "upper," the
terms being more or less arbitrary in space. The axle contained the
dock, where Council ships arrived to deliver the prisoners, the foodand the weapons.
    The whole setup beggared belief. And in fact, Quell had refused to
accept it until he had seen the stockpiles for himself. What kind of
prison gave its prisoners weapons? But there they had sat, still crated
and fresh from the factory. Dartguns, dartrifles, magazine after magazine of black code darts loaded with nonlethal stun programs. Quell
had picked one of the rifles up, polished the barrel on his sleeve, and
aimed it at an imaginary Council officer bursting through the airlock.
"Aren't they afraid we're going to break out of here?" he had asked
Plithy.
    The boy had chuckled. "How?"
    It was a good point.