Claudius Brahms was in disbelief. He was also in handcuffs, but more debilitating was his shock. In one month he had gone from being one of the most trusted diplomats in the Foreign Advocate's Office, the delegate to the IPO, to having his job revoked, investigated for treason, and finally convicted of it. Now he was on a Kathrian helicopter back to Rabarac to live out a life sentence somewhere, never to see the light of day again.
All the media he had heard just killed him. A terrorist? Wow. His ancestors fled Kathria to Rabarac during the Exodus War more than a century before. He loved Rabarac. He had served in the Rabarac Armed Forces during the Civil War just before getting the job in the FA's office. Where had all of this come from? Now there were incriminating documents in his office in the Advocate Complex, which he hadn't used since the IPO formed. He was certain he had been framed, but by whom? He couldn't figure out who it benefited to have him gone. Foreign Advocate Magorion Klausovich had always thought well of him and trusted him with many sensitive projects. He had had dinner with the man and his wife on multiple occasions. Brahms didn't think it possible that he was behind it. But he didn't know anyone else who might do this. Perhaps some diplomat who didn't get the IPO assignment?
Just stop, he told himself. He had raced through these thoughts a thousand times during the trial and since, and they always led him to despair.
Why not despair now? You're on a helicopter to hell. He closed his eyes and rolled his head back so as to look up at the ceiling of the helicopter. He would go insane if he didn't figure out how to deal with this for the moment. He had to have hope that someone would figure out the fraud back home and exonerate him. Maybe Magorion? But Magorion had actually been removed from his office, as well, and assigned to work with the Archan fellow from Kathria.
Justice works. This can't last forever. You're a diplomat, you'll figure out life in prison. You were also military, you'll be fine. For some reason it didn't comfort him, as it hadn't comforted him the dozen other times he had said that to himself.
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The helicopter touched down on the helipad of the facility on the island off of the coast of Rabarac. Armed guards in military uniforms approached the helicopter and opened the hatch. They led the new subject into the building at gunpoint. They pushed him into a large office where he was issued an orange jumpsuit to wear and ordered to change. He complied, then had his fingerprints scanned by a machine and had a blood sample taken. He dared not resist. Then he was led into a small room and placed in a chair. A few moments or a few hours later a man in a lab coat entered, a clipboard in hand, preceded by two guards with assault rifles. The man in the lab coat was maybe forty and had black hair that was gray at the temples. He walked leisurely around the room and spoke very indifferently, as if describing instructions for a prescription, "You will awake at 5:30 every morning and report to your Controller for the day's instruction. Your meals will last no longer than eight minutes, and you
will not communicate with the other subjects unless specifically told otherwise." He paused, looked at the subject before him, glanced at his clipboard, and started again, with less indifference this time. "Forgive me, Mr. Brahms, I have forgotten my manners. Welcome to the Center for Rehabilitation, Anthropological Detention, and Laboratory Experimentation. You are number 70656. My name is Dr. Janus Veis, and I am the Director here. Welcome to the CRADLE."
