"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door."—Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus"
The watch at Station Ceileidh was usually a hectic but routine matter of shipping. Gigatons of material, data and people moved between Earth and Freehold daily.
That routine was suddenly broken when a traffic technician yelled, "Holy shit!"
"What is it, Sergeant?" asked the watch commander.
"Six ships, Lieutenant, and you'd better look at this," the technician said, gratefully handing the situation over.
The Citizen's Council held an emergency meeting by vid, those not present insystem represented by proxy. Treasurer Griffiths had the most recent update on the station and explained the situation.
"We have six ships, barely functional, computer-piloted. Minimal support. They were loaded up on the Earth side of the point and sent through to us. Occupants are over one hundred thousand political deportees. We have to come to an immediate decision on what to do."
"Observer Naumann, military. Send them back."
"Griffiths speaking. Not possible. The drives need repair, the life support is failing. They were stuffed in and shipped. Several thousand are casualties already. They're here to stay."
"Naumann speaking. Scuttle the damned things and be done with it."
"Great Godde—Uddin speaking. Who let you in here, Naumann? Just murder a hundred thousand people out of convenience? And who are you to speak?"
"Dyson speaking. The commander is here at my request to provide a purely tactical input. I agree that the presence of these persons is intended as provocative. I recommend we find a way to get rid of them. Preferably alive."
"Uddin speaking. 'Preferably,' Marshal? If they're here, then we have to do what we can to help them. It's not their fault the UN is using them as pawns."
"Chinratana speaking. The problem I see is that these are malcontents and troublemakers. They are not psychologically suited to our system. They are predominantly untrained and the few who are trained will be reluctant to work. Their numbers are great enough to be a problem anywhere we settle them. I don't want to kill them, but we don't have the resources to support them, either."
It was agreed that the refugees not be killed. The wrangling on any further action took hours. Some suggested forwarding them to another system or back to Earth even if it was necessary to provide ships. "No good," Griffiths advised. "The news in Sol System is that we agreed to take them. They'll make a PR slaughter out of this if any of them die."
"Uddin speaking. When did we agree to that?"
"Hernandez speaking. Apparently, they are claiming it under the old Colonial Code."
"Uddin speaking. But we aren't a colony anymore."
"Hernandez speaking. I know that, Citizen, and you know that—"
"Understood."
The final decision was to allow them in and disperse then throughout the Freehold's cities and habitats. It may have been the most humane decision possible. In the long view, it was not the best.
The crowd was roaring and almost moblike. The sergeant needed the amplifier to be heard. "Listen up! . . . Listen up! . . . All right. We are about to start processing everyone for admittance to the Freehold. You will proceed through these doors," he indicated them to either side of him, "and will be mediscanned. You will then board shuttles and be transported to various cities. Families will be kept together. If there are any problems, please be sure to let someone know and we will do what we can to help you."
The noise rose again and the crowd surged toward the doors. The guards there found it necessary to use minor force against the angry, demanding throng.
The processing would take several days and would not be without its delays. The first of those came within segs.
"Lady," the corporal medic insisted politely but firmly, "in order to be allowed access to the Freehold, you and your children must be treated to assure no diseases are admitted. We can make no exceptions."
"God does not allow his faithful to become ill, except as part of His Plan," she replied. "I refuse to let you interfere," she said, angry but with forced calm. "I have freedom of religious expression."
They argued for several segs, until finally the corporal called a superior. The problem was bumped up to a lieutenant before it could be resolved. He drew the corporal aside and said, "We'll check for contamination and quarantine her for two weeks. If it checks out, we'll admit her. But keep it quiet; we don't need several thousand idiots doing it just to avoid a nano."
The woman argued mightily against having blood, exhalation, urine or any other test. After multiple assurances that only observation would be performed and nothing given to her, she relented.
There were immediate problems as the malcontents were landed or docked in various cities. They'd all been shipped from Earth for various infractions, from multiple "petty" assaults and thefts, to rioting, looting and political offenses including protest and political rebellion.
Most were either unsuited for or utterly unwilling to work. This was not a problem that the Council would normally worry about. They'd either adapt or die and neither was an issue relevant to the minimal powers of the Freehold's government. What made it important was the foreign press, who were sure to publicize any "oppression" across space. There'd been a lot of wrangling, but the final decision was that any exception to the existing system, besides being unconstitutional and outside the legal bounds of the Council, was a bad precedent for the future. Integrity was decided, not without protest, as being more important than appeasement even on a galactic scale. Everyone held their breaths as the newcomers landed, demanded their "rights" and were told that the only right in the Freehold was to work or starve. Some laughed, others complained, most assumed the threat was a bluff. It was neither threat nor bluff, being merely a statement of fact.