Wheels within wheels

Wheels within wheels. Clocks spinning hands aloof beneath a larger clock face, beneath a yet larger face. The station,  the boarding room. The constant jockeying for position during the long trip coming to climax. The thud and hiss as the lock meets its old familiar. Bodies pushing against the other, the sway, the scrum, the swarm before the door opens. The light of the room meets the light of the lock. They cast the same hue, the colors both from the same mother manufacture. The leaders stride into the room. Calling out the names and credeo of their tribe. The gangs of thugs and scholars and community that have wound their way around the solar dance since memory began its telling.  The leaders carry not banners but their yelled calls and their ink stained scars. Now has come the hours of interaction, congress and violent conjunction. The bell has met Keller station. And again the population of either will not remain the same, will not be made of the same careful political balance of power.  Every generation comes to this moment, this room. The first 100 males to pass from the room to the other side will be allowed to keep their fertility. The doors hold a field, steady and dim. The bell and the station both begin the final steps of their mating. Both begin to flex, writhe and contract. Like a worm wringing itself from the back to the front. The very walls sliding and constricting,  pushing the populace forward.
The two space fairing structures having met, now forcibly extruded their human cargo into the room made between them. Only when all have passed out,  and the bell and the station fully emptied themselves and reset their cavities,  will the people be allowed to pass from their past to their unalterable destiny.  The joined room contains the joined battle, of casual posturing, political pleading,  seduction and calculated violence.  The room is a fertile sea of man's genius, of man's ineptitude, of a destiny designed and chosen by masters long dead and yet still in control. The joined room is a microcosm of the dance, of the final reckless dream of our species.  We are here now. They decided this long ago. Decided we were not to be trusted with free worlds or free institutions. For that only led to massed power and escalating dangers. We would be put upon the solar wheel and work unknowing toward the harnessing of the sun, and the seeding of the galaxy.  We decided long ago, we were not to be trusted, man from man, individual to individual.  We would be allowed our petty alligences,  as long as they stayed petty. The two fold plan would go on endlessly.  A frankenstien's monster the size of the solar system, made with our faults, our failings, and our fear. But endless and faceless as it may seem to the observer, there is always the need for truth and the possession of understanding.  Man designed a cage for himself,  stretching from the third planet to the largest gas giant. But man came from the chaos of millions of years on earth. And we do question, we do yet analyze and remember.  The elders know a thing. They know the remaining pieces to the puzzle grow sparse.