After more than a year away from the horrors of the Vogdi’s invasion, James had managed to get the barest taste of the peace his father had enjoyed during the early years of his rule. Unfortunately, the universe had a sick sense of humor, and humanity was its most common punchline.

Its latest joke came in two parts. Five ramshackle mining barges full of refugees fleeing from what his intelligence people characterized as a ‘system-sized penal labor camp’, and two disarmed frigates crewed by war criminals.

The latter had arrived in Domusec orbit a day ago, where medical personnel and metric tons of supplies had been ready to greet them. The latest census put them at roughly two thousand souls. Eighty-five percent were bellow the age of thirty-five t-years, and about a third were bellow the age of thirteen.

With life support systems on the ships failing, many had been moved to complete but vacant sections of Bridgehead Station. The refugees were skeptical and distrusting, but James could hardly blame them.

The picture his people gleaned from testimonies and interviews was sickening. These miners and their families had been raised in deep-space mining stations or sent there for committing some crime -such as speaking out against the king, or not showing up for the military draft-. They worked long hours and were paid in scrip that could only be used for buying basic goods from commissary shops -such as soap-, or purchasing overpriced black market goods.

Sentences lasted twenty or thirty years, with the local law system allowing authorities to extend sentences ad infinitum for crimes as petty as speaking out against a law enforcement officer or defacing a public space.

Slave labor, pretty much. And, according to the interrogation of the murderous sons of bitches they’d caught red handed…they were making the weapons used in a civil war. Or, at least, mining the minerals with which were turned into weapons.

The frigates that had been pursuing the refugees belonged to the ‘Leonian Royal Guard’. Though they’d been disabled, it had taken three days for Patrol Squadron Two’s organic marine units to capture the vessels.

Casualties had been light, since the enviroment had been…calm. Unlike many other boarding operations, where units had to retrieve targets or cripple infrastructure in very little time, they know had all the time in the world to crack the frigates with safety in mind -for both parties-.

So instead of breaching through an airlock or bulkhead with breaching charges and rushing for the engineering room and bridge while killing everybody who resisted, the marines had taken to methodically dissembling the ship bit-by-bit. They’d managed to drill holes in the hull using special drill heads that deposited sealing formula behind them.

They’d expanded that gap until it was big enough to send combat robots and tear gas, taking the ships meter-by-meter. It helped that the ships themselves were running on auxiliary power and limited food supplies, and the marines’ technical specialists had managed to hack the power system to turn the lights off and on at random intervals while blasting loud noises. Sailors were trained for a lot of things, but psychological torture inside their own territory was not one of them.

The war criminals folded like wet paper, and the marines had suffered less than a tenth of their normal casualties. Each death was terrible, but it was better to lose seven brave marines than seventy. Injuries had been even more limited; the Circe’s surgical chief had said that he hadn’t seen a less bloody boarding action in his entire length of service.

In the aftermath, the frigates had been put under garrison and the crew locked in their rooms. Officers from Naval Intelligence, which had been formalized just four months prior under the command of Lieutenant Commander Stefan Hall, had been dispatched on a pinnace to interrogate the crew one by one.

The process was ongoing, as each intelligence officer could only ‘interview’ ten or twelve lionsguard every day. Yet they’d already gotten several high-ranking members of the crew to crack, including the captain. A few false promises of freedom or pardon and they were spilling everything.

+++

Luka had lived two thirds of his life in a penal station in Nimbus, after one of his classmates overheard him cursing the Lion's Guard and promptly ratted him out for the infamous -and lavish- rewards the piss-guard gave to its loyal informants.

He’d managed to stay away from the gangs and joined one of the more honest work crews, spending his spare scrip on food that tasted marginally better thanboiled cardboard. His sentence had been just fifteen years; maybe the officer that sentenced him had gotten a sloppy from his mistress and decided to be generous on that day-. Just ten days before his sentence was up, he got a battery of citations for his ‘unsafe work ethic’ and had his sentence extended by another eight years.

State-sec didn’t give two shits if somebody walked out of the airlock breathing pure pixie dust instead of oxygen, so Luka had known the judgment was bullshit. He was never getting out of that rock.

Now, one ballsy escape attempt and a nightmarish trip later, he was safe. Or, at least, that’s what everybody was telling him.

Luka wasn’t sure; life in under the Akritan Dynasty looked too good to be true. Then again, life outside the kingdom was rumored to be better

What he did know was the following.

The refugees, his refugees, had received assistance before the even managed to dock in ‘Bridgehead Station’. Dozens of shuttles, military and civilian, had delivered much needed food and medical supplies, as well as doctors, nurses and technicians. Meanwhile, a pair of small warships from the ‘Polarii Navy’ -that name was familiar- had escorted them to the station.

Upon arrival, instead of being relegated to some faraway dock to wait out the local bigshot’s judgment, they’d been welcomed into the station. That had been…stressful; many had grown too attached to the ships to leave. Yet many more were eager to smell fresh air and gain some semblance of privacy that the tight quarters of the barges couldn’t provide.

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The station appeared to be still under construction, yet most of the families and orphans -especially the orphans- had been once-more moved from the large halls and lobbies into habitation sections with beds and private bathrooms. The rest had been quickly assigned tents, while construction on yet more apartments had visibly intensified.

In the mean time, state-sec officers -police, they called them here- had arrived to interview everyone. They’d also taken pictures, fingerprints and names; within hours each refugee had a shiny new identification card that labeled them as an asylum seeker. Nobody he knew of had ‘disappeared’, which usually happened when you garnered the attention of state-sec for more than a few minutes.

Each interviewee had been asked a number of questions, but none felt like the trap questions that state-sec asked during its interrogations to force confessions. Instead, the dynasty’s police officers had focused on health problems, family status and their education level. Luka, who’d answered -truthfully- that he worked as a miner in space, had been asked -and they’d been rather insistent that they were not forcing him to accept- to participate in another interview to determine his skills.

All other miners and skilled workers had been faced with similar questions. Many, like Luka, had cautiously accepted. Some out of fear of repercussions, others -like himself- out of curiosity. Instead of police officers, the interview had been conducted by fellow industry members. Miners, refinery workers, electronics specialists and the like.

After all was said and done, the refugees had been provided with cooked meals…and what meals! Vegetables, fruits, meat -real meat!-, spices and even sweets. The refugees had eaten their fill and then some, and then they’d been allowed to sleep. Most peacefully; a good meal and good treatment did wonders for the soul.

At breakfast, which had been served nine standard hours later and was equally luxurious, Luka had been approached by a woman who said she worked for the Duke himself. That had nearly scared the shit out of him. Then she’d informed him that the man had asked for a private meeting. Luka had been allowed two hours to consider the offer, during which he talked with his friends.

As he found out, each ‘captain’ of the mining barges had received a similar offer.

Two hours later, they were all was flown down to the planet Domusec, to meet the Duke of the Akrites Dynasty.

+++

When the shuttle touched down and he stepped into solid ground for the first time in decades, Luka wept. A full minute later he regained his bearings, and seeing his escorts waiting for him had jumped up and started apologizing. The men and women dressed in military uniforms had simply smiled and patted them on the back.

Then they gave them flowers.

To him, they gave a white flower -a dandelion he called it- shelter in a plastic cup with a fist-full of moist soil. Luka was not shamed to say he’d cradled the beautiful thing with more care than his best friend’s child.

Feeling cathartic, the group of five refugees and their escorts were driven a short distance away to a gated manor. Some of them felt a bit uncomfortable, dressed simply as they were entering the residence of a noble, but Luka had been far too focused observing the creases and curves of his beautiful flower to give two shits about his clothing.

The manor’s staff gently ushered them into a dining room, one of its walls glass from top to bottom to show off the view of the valley. One of the captains had said something about terraforming, but Luka had ignored the conversation in favor of enjoying the view.

Until their host arrived.

He had expected Duke Akrites to be dressed in a jeweled formal dress, much like the Lion himself as portrayed on the vids. Instead the man had arrived dressed in a simple military uniform, even simpler than those worn by the lionsguard and the navy. The sight had been confusing, though every single refugee had reflexively stood at attention.

“Please, be at ease, friends. I’d like to personally welcome you to the duchy…as well as Domusec. I understand that you’ve all missed the feeling of dirt under your feet. You’re more than welcome to wake up to that feeling for the rest of your lives, if you so wish it.”

Luka already liked him.

…

The meal had been lavish, yet at odds with whatever notions they all had about how nobility ate. Instead of confusingly tiny portions of absurdly exotic foods and bottles of alcohol worth more than a shuttle, they’d been served a course of soup, fish, vegetables and chicken breast, alongside simple water or juice.

All of them had dug in with gusto, eschewing conversation entirely until the meal was complete. Half an hour and several plates of food later, five humble refugees and a single noble sat around the table eating lemon ice cream.

“I suppose you are all wondering why I brought you here.”

The duke’s words made them all pause. Had he ‘wined and dined’ them, as the flicks said, before delivering the gut punch? The five of them remained silent, though laser focused on their benefactor’s next words.

“It’s quite simple really. My nation is growing, which means there are lots of opportunities for work. I assume you understand that if you wish to live here long term, you must find some form of employment, yes?”

They all nodded cautiously, to which the duke chuckled.

“Nobody will ask you to work in a specific place, such as a factory or mine. Really, you’re free to move around the duchy however you like so long as you follow the laws and pay your taxes. Said laws are all inside this book, of which any person can acquire a free copy from law enforcement officers and civil servants. It is also publicly available on the intranet, so you should have no difficulty getting ahold of it.”

One of the other four captains raised his hand, and the duke gestured for him to speak.

“I mean no offense, my lord, but…what if somebody doesn’t want to follow these laws?”

You could hear a pin drop in the silence that followed. But only for a moment, before the duke smiled bitterly and spoke.

“I did not expect such hesitation. The matter is quite simple; they can either grab the first transorbital shuttle to Polaris or gather a group of like-minded individuals, hop on one of your mining barges and continue on their journey. We’ll even fix it up and fill its antimatter fuel tank to its maximum capacity.”

“So…there won’t be repercussions?” Luka asked, and the duke’s eyes turned to his own.

“You misunderstand me. All crime is punished, but depending on the crime your people will be treated with understanding and a light punishment. A youth vandalizing public property will get a slap on the wrist; a rapist will get to see how long they can last submerged in a pool of liquid nitrogen. In short, so long as you don’t do to others what you wouldn’t want others to do to you, you’ll be fine.”

His words were…brutal, but fair. Luka liked that, compared to the poisoned honey that spewed out of state-sec’s lips every time they made a public announcement. Benefit this, reward that, then a dozen people disappeared overnight and goods went out of stock for a month or two due to ‘supply disruptions’.

“Now, let’s go back to business. If your people want to stay here, they will need to work. Skilled or unskilled, we’ll take anybody. If they want to make more money, they can get educated for free in their spare time. It doesn’t matter if you’re a widow with three kids or a cripple with just a single arm and two fingers to your name, there is always a job that needs doing. And I can personally guarantee that all of them will allow you to live a live-able life. Food on the table, a roof over your heads, good air to breath and a doctor that’s there for when you’re sick.”

“My…my lord.” Luka spoke. “Why are you telling us all of this?”

“Because it appears that your people trust you. They trusted you enough to get them out of the hellhole of a station your country put you in, so they probably trust you enough to ask questions and demand answers. When you leave my home and return to Bridgehead Station, I want you to be able to answer their questions in full, so that they can make educated choices about what kind of future they want for themselves.”

“I hope that’s not too big of an ask, ladies and gentlemen.”