Another ship arrived, shuddering and pitching as fire boiled all around.
It was far from the first to arrive, and it was certainly not the last rusted, smoking ship destined for a rough landing in the Rural Relocation Colonies. Those colonies were most commonly called 'the RRECs' by both residents and those in the inner planets. It's trailing, stark smear of orange in the dark sky was the fifth that day, and only the latest of many more expected to land that month. It screeched into the atmosphere, billowing smoke as it burned through ozone. As per usual, the ship shook and sputtered, threatening to break apart mid-air. Aboard were the undesirables of the Central systems: law-breakers, debtors, and sufferers of incurable illnesses or mutagens. Every shake, bump, and rattle of the ship sent clouds of dust into the air to coat the passengers' skin and clothing.
The passengers came in every age, gender, race, and species.
Two minors were aboard. A young teenager with baby-fat still rounding her cheeks, sat with one hand gripping the seat between her legs. That grip was the only thing keeping her from bouncing to the floor. Her other hand was wrapped firmly around the rail just above and behind her head, preventing her skull from bashing against the bulkhead. Her knuckles were pale with the force of her grip. The restraint swung uselessly, the clasps rusted and dysfunctional. Her eyes were skewed shut as her lips moved in silent prayer. Fuz adorned the caramel and coffee stripes of her skin, showing the lighter patch at her scalp where her hair had been shaved.
The other minor was tucked into a woman's lap, his small child's frame almost completely obscured within her embrace. Only his blonde hair shown around her arms. The woman was fair complected, and the only woman between youth and old age. She bore the second shaved scalp. Her hair had been hacked away, leaving tufts to stick up at odd angles, surrounded by patches of nearly smooth skin. With her chin tucked over her son's head, her eyes were fixed on a distant point, unseeing. The only sign that she actually lived was her constant 'shushing', an attempt to console the child she held.
Three elderly women appeared to be in pain as the shaking ship abused their aged bodies. One of the women sat beside an equally aged man, the only man who appeared over 40, desperately clutching each others' hands. The pair were of dark skin, as was another elderly woman desperately clutching a photo of a large family to her chest. The white of their hair was in stark contrast to the rich chocolate tone.
The other elderly woman sat with a younger man. They were twisted awkwardly in their harnesses to press their foreheads together. They maintained that position despite the unsteady ride, and the occasional crack of skulls in the roughest turbulence. Their lips moved in unison, gray scales with a blue-ish cast shimmered through the dust in the glow of the flashing alarm lights. The male bore a scabbed brand, haloed in swollen red flesh, marking him as the only law-breaker. The brand, a circle with a narrow, diagonal 'X', indicated that his crime was that of murder. His was the third shaved scalp.
Despite their diverse backgrounds, the nine individuals were unified in one regard; misery. Puffy, red eyes had long ago run dry. Cheeks were caked with dust and clumps of dirt, marked only by the clean trails their tears and sweat had cut. If their scalps weren't outright shaved, matted and greasy hair curtained their faces. Despondent moods marred both the young and old, creating a thick despairing aura with a weight that could be felt physically. Wrinkled and identical light gray tunics, sweat pants, and thin mass-produced sandals did nothing to prepare the newcomers for life in the developing colonies.
One could almost taste their collective anguish.
Despite the turbulence and squawking alarms, the passengers hardly flinched. Their ability to care, to process their current state, was muted. The mother holding her son sat surrounded by the alarms and lights, knowing she was utterly helpless. There was no option or tool she could use to make the situation better. The cockpit was locked from the inside. Opening a hatch to jump would kill everyone at that altitude. There wasn't even a single parachute on board. Nor was there a first-aid-kit. The ship had been thoroughly stripped before it was commissioned for deportations.
She had a tight grip on the child, but Sabel was not a typical seven year old. His eyes were too knowing, too old, for his years. When they had been called for their first appointment to adhere to the newly-instated annual medical examination, they had not been prepared for the outcome. Sabel's mother, Marjory, was a carrier for a genetic condition that she had passed to him. That genetic condition qualified both Sabel and his mother for deportation simply because they were not valid 'breeders', nor were they productive to society. Marjory had been a stay-at-home mother who home-schooled her ill and weak son. She had no trade to offset her medical shortcoming. Sabel, on the other hand, could not properly metabolize food into energy and required medical assistance to survive.
Marjory had been sure that her husband would have the clout to grant them an exception. He was a prolific military figure, after all. Exceptions were made for less important people, just to keep those people happy. Zerrik Thacker, husband to Marjory Wizzen-Thacker and father to Sabel Thacker, was unreachable during the events that led to their deportation to the RREC's.
Everything he knew of the colonies led him to the realization that he was already on the short path to an unpleasant death. His medicine would most likely not be available in the primitive outskirts of society. His mother knew this of course. She had yelled this at the soldiers, calling them killers, as the heartless uniforms carried the two away. Marjory had fought as the two were separated for processing. After biting, kicking, clawing, and spitting, she had been marked with a brand, shaved, and chained for two days before they were reunited for the flight.
Now, she would hardly relax her hold on him.
Another swift drop in altitude forced her to pull him closer, trapping him even more tightly against her. One thought circled her mind on repeat: If they survived the landing, he would decline fast. If they survived the landing, they would have to be hard to survive the primitive and cruel world the colonies were reported to be. The passengers, as one, all mulled over what they would find upon departing the ship.
If they survived the landing.
Until recently, those passengers would have been greeted by chaos and hardship, bands of raiders and lawlessness. That was what each person on that ship expected. Now, however, the Conclave was there to give structure to those poor souls. Three patrollers moved to surround and intercept the floundering vessel, latching onto it with anchors typically meant for docking. Slowly, the trio were able to slow the speed and set the ship on a trajectory less inclined for pain, death, and destruction. The billowing smoke and flames from the ill-maintained older-model passenger ship lessened and vanished as the Patrollers took full control, through injecting a program to intercept and block the current pre-set autopilot instructions.
On the ground, the individuals who would make first contact with the newcomers waited, prepared. Sentries and satellites had informed the colonists of the imminent arrival hours ago, nearly as soon as the last group was processed. Men and women alike took their posts, listening to the screech of the inbound vessel. A team waited on the landing pad, giving visual to the pilots with glowing wands in addition to the flight tower's directions and electronic readings. Just to the side, ready to rush forward, was a team that would perform the initial meet-and-greet. It was their job to calm the people inside, subdue any hostile, and evaluate the immediate needs, if any.
Luca had seen it all and there was no way to know what they would find once the hatch opened. The occupants might attack. It was common enough, and those of her team were armed with sedatives and thorough hand-to-hand combat training. They would do their best not to cause permanent injury, but some who arrived were fearful enough of the colonists that there was no avoiding it. Luca bore the nasty scar of one such attack, where a man had used a metal bar, thinking to protect his daughter from the scum of the RRECs. After Luca took the bar square in the head, losing consciousness, the man was tackled and suffered a dislocated arm in the fall. That very man now helped train others in combat.
The occupants may need immediate medical attention, and those of her team carried extensive first-aid kits and coms. The coms were directly linked to both the enforcers and medical staff, who were monitoring their movements through the linked cameras, in case something was missed. Once the team could calm and evaluate the strangers, they would be led to one of several stations for processing. Those in need of immediate medical attention would be directed to that station first, but the rest would find little wait with abundant processor's ready to help.
The four ships stirred dirt and leaves into the air as they touched down. Once the anchors were free and the three patrollers took to the air again, it was go-time. Luca intended to be there before the hatch opened, as experience had proven was best. When the passengers saw a group advancing, they panicked. When the team was already there, they surrendered much more easily.
Luca gnashed her teeth on that thought. If the Central Systems would stop making her people out as rapists and murderers, a good portion of her troubles would vanish. As per usual when she felt the urge to bombard the Central Systems with an FYI, the tiny voice in the back of her mind spoke up. The Central Systems uses fear to control. What's better for control than the threat of banishment to somewhere worse? It was true.
The hatch opened just as she reached the vessel, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The passengers had stood, clutching one another tightly, but their will to fight was small and broken. That would be remedied, but for now timid was better than combative.
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"Good morning folks, and welcome to Lon'Byal and the city of Harbor. My name is Luca, and my team will be helping you move through processing. It's nearly mid-day on Gaea, but we still have roughly two Gaean hours before dawn here. We want to get you settled as soon as possible, and if you cooperate this will move along fairly quickly." They were still nervous, but that was to be expected. "Each person or family will have their own guide. For the next few weeks, your guide will help you adjust. For now, though, we need to get you off this ship. Who's hungry?" Without incident, another nine lives were added to the Conclave.
It hadn't always been that easy, but the pilots and ground forces had plenty of practice in recent weeks.
Luca and her team led the nine passengers out of the ship where water, juice, and sandwiches were waiting, along with sanitizing towelettes. With a sandwich and drink in each hand, they made their way down the ramp and into the first of the two large buildings outside the city walls. It was always a slow procession as the gawking slowed their progress.
The passengers, the new arrivals to the RREC Harbor were directed through processing where they documented their life stories and recorded their biometrics. Luca stood nearby, having claimed the mother-son duo as her charge, and explained the process to fill the gaps in data entry and verification.
"You will be provided a new, temporary life until a place is found for you in the Conclave machine. This is the procedure on all RREC planets, now. You will have housing, protection, a job, and training if it's needed."
When processing reached medical needs, Luca watched as Marjory filled out the forms on the little slate.
"Through a partnership with ADOL, A Dose of Life, medical treatment is also available to the new arrivals." Marjory looked at Luca sharply, clearly skeptical, but the guy behind the desk typing at the com only nodded. ADOL was a systems-wide medical organization catering to those in need. Sabel had once been a regular patient of their local clinic, until it was closed down a few months past.
"We have a pretty good medical system here, and everyone is screened before going in." 'going in' meant passing through the massive doors in the tall wall surrounding the city. Sabel and Margory were both near tears when a very capable nurse directed them to another line, where Sable would be assessed and begin the process of regular treatments.
Outside of the RREC colonies, for the lower-tier planets on the fringes of the galaxy, the situation was only growing worse. Hyphos
Since the beginning of the expansion, the descendants of Gaea had spread across the galaxy like a plague. Gaean descendants irrevocably made their mark on the worlds they touched, going so far as nearly destroying one planet, Hyphos, during terraforming. Nothing remained from the pre-terraforming on that planet. Others had since experienced some Pre-Gaean extinctions. The humans consumed resources and native ways-of-life equally. Those humans in power preyed on natives and lower-ranking humans alike. Slave trade resurfaced from the darkest recesses of recorded history at the end of the War of Expansion, carting males and females away in chains; separating mothers and fathers from children and each other, into a life of servitude. It was a dark time in history, and it was one that lingered. While many districts in the Central Systems territories had banned the practice of slavery, yet certain clauses still remained. A starving child could find themselves indentured to a master for stealing. An adult could find themselves in the same state if they were unable to pay a debt. It was common, though the majority of adults were deported to the RRECs. Most masters wanted younger slaves.
Along with slavery, the men and women in power at the end of the Wars of Expansion implemented the ancient practice of hierarchical ruling. Immediately following the end of the wars, skirmishes for power broke out. The threat to hard-won territories was one that had to be met head-on.. Those in the seats of kings and queens, called Mokesh and Quierra, had to learn to rule. Part of that rule was quelling any and all opposition. They did not disappoint.
Sure, it was hard to rule. Those individuals who found themselves with the responsibility of feeding, protecting, and nurturing an entire population also had to regulate commerce and tariffs, as well as ensuring that they maintained their power. Quierra Hadschi, the first and only child, regardless of the fact that she was a daughter of the patriarchal regime, was the only blood heir to the Higarin Throne. She had attained and ruled from that throne through a constant deluge of blood. She enjoyed holding court, demanding the most severe punishment for crimes committed.
A middle aged man, struggling to feed his only child, even with his wife working two jobs, kneeled on the cold tile before the throne. The woman sitting at the center of the Council's table spoke with her four surrounding retainers in hushed whispers. He'd been caught stealing. After learning his pay was cut again, he'd picked a few pears from the grove outside his town. He'd hoped the fruit would be enough for his daughter's meals that weekend. He'd hoped nobody was watching the sensors at that time of day. He'd been wrong. He was bound for indenturement or to the RRECs by law, and his daughter had never received the fruit.
Looking up to the young Quierra, barely beyond her teens, he knew it was going to be so much worse. It was pure bad luck on his part that the woman was in his district, many miles from the capital. The district he called home was usually ignored. They'd hardly even been subject to taxes. So finding her presiding over his case was a shocking and terrifying revelation.
"Remove the hand that steals, and send such a creature to the RRECs, where such heinous actions are acceptable." His eyes bulged as the verdict was passed in a cold yet excited voice. A thick chopping block was dropped before him, nearly the same instant as two soldiers grasped his shoulders. One on each side, they forced him forward, holding his right arm outstretched. "Let this man's fate set an example: My reach is far, and my subjects will be held to Central Law. Justice will not be forgotten or ignored."
It was only then that he could make sense of what he was hearing. The high-pitched wail in the hall was an echo of his own cries, mixed with those of his daughter and wife. They were seated at the front, where they would have to watch. That was another particularly nasty tendency of the Higarin Quierra. The punishment delivered to the perpetrator was witnessed by the family. His four year old daughter had to witness the decorative axe, more a ceremonial thing than an effective weapon, cleave his hand from his arm. She had to watch the blade fall three times before the bones, tendons, and flesh were completely severed. She heard her father cry i7n pain until unconsciousness claimed him.
Not many months later, the Quierra was found in her bed, lifeless. Her blood splattered the walls, high ceiling, windows, and floor with crimson. Capital servants were quoted, stating that the scene was an eerie reminder of the slaughter of the previous Mokesh and Quierra, both found in much the same way. Her parents had been found in much the same way.
Her next living relative, a distant uncle with two sons, took the throne the same day. He ruled with less bloodshed, but the skewed view of Central System justice was still carried out. The lowest classes, the poor and helpless, bore the weight of the society above them. That was the way of ruling in the Central Systems.
It was hard to maintain control across an entire planet, and even harder still to control several planets under a single flag. But the Triad control has remained strong since expansion, though. Both during and after the expansion wars, simply flexing military muscle was enough. Give the people a few bloodbaths, and they could no longer justify the price of resistance. A single aerial attack into the heart of an uncooperative community did much to dissuade any notion of resistance. Screams and the mixed stench of blood and ashes were an effective deterrent for the living. When the price for disobedience was paid with the blood of family, children, and burning livelihoods, obedience no longer seemed so terrible. After the dust settled, the only way the provincial rulers, called Vertices, were able to maintain their holds was to rule with iron-clad control, through the lower Mokesh and Quierra. They employed a system based on rewards and the fear of punishment.
Punishment usually landed the offenders in the RREC systems, on one of five planets within two bands of the galaxy. In the last generation, the Triad had managed to grow more oppressive, with the ascension of a new cruel Vertice. As a result, the Conclave was born. Its growth was marked by leaps and bounds, quickly outpacing any and all expectations.
The once-lawbreakers, undesirables, and refugees that comprised the RREC systems had joined forces to bring law and order to the cut-throat and desperate colonies. They fought to keep the RRECs free of the inhumanity and cruelty plaguing the Central Systems, and bring it under one banner as one territory.
The major RREC colonies no longer resembled an odd mixture of medieval villages interspersed with scraps of technology and controlled by gang or mafia mentalities. Basic characteristics of civilization were operational, such as water treatment facilities and stable food supplies, as well as a strengthening government and social structure.
Marjory had to explain her brand, a circle with a single horizontal bar dividing it. Luca knew of it, of course. It was a common enough symbol to encounter as people were ripped from their families.
"Understand that we just need to make sure that we can send you into general population without a thorough evaluation, medication, or surveillance." Luca had explained as she signed off on the mark. "Marks like those," she continued, pointing the murderer's brand on the scaled male, "Will have to go through more processes to be granted entry to housing." The male caught Marjory's stare and glared at her with large black orbs. He really did look devilish with those gray-blue scales and black eyes. Agamidians were unsettling in any shade, but the darker ones were always portrayed as the reincarnation of some ancient form of evil. Then the elderly woman, looking so much like him but with softer, lighter gray eyes, touched his arm. His steely face melted and he bent forward to speak with her.
Sabel and Marjory, their processing complete, were permitted to pass beyond the walls of the initial check-point. They were each issued a 'starter pack'; a collection of contact information, a city map,clothing, and food, They crossed the threshold into the city proper. Like many before them, they halted and gaped at what lay beyond the walls. This was not the RREC colony they had expected. Even within the check-point, disciplined soldiers and dedicated, clean, and organized personnel did not reflect the Central Systems opinion of the RREC colonies.
The sun was just starting to rise, brightening the dim city. Streetlights were flickering off as the city awoke. Clean, polite people were emerging from well-maintained old-fashioned apartments to climb into public transports. Everyone shared greetings of waves, kind words, or smiles. No private transports were visible, yet, but the paved streets, manicured flora, and quite decidedly stable city had them both speechless. Sabel jumped, pulling at Marjory's hand, pointing violently toward an obviously well-used playground. It was covered by a large canvas triangle to protect it from the elements. It all directly contradicted everything they had been taught to believe of the RRECs.
This was not a land lost to the dregs of society.
As Marjory held onto Sabel, turning to take in their new world, her eyes latched onto the paintings on the wall. From the processing center on the other side, the wall was a plain, unadorned and weathered white-washed barrier standing three stories tall. From the inside, it was a colorful mosaic swirling around six individuals in armored suits, each standing the height of the wall in dramatic poses. Three of the suited individuals on each side, framing the gate and two lines of text. The sentences were made of a big, bold script and were painted directly above the doors:
Against the darkness, we fight.
WE ARE CONCLAVE