or you wouldn’t be in here.”
“Tell me what country I’m in! Please! They drugged me on the way here.”
“You’re in the shit. Shit Country.” He stamped out, followed by his lackey.
One of the guards clouted Prisoner B over the head again for good measure. Then they frog-marched him out of the room, down the broad corridor, to a room into which they kicked him.
As they turned to leave, he saw the inscription in yellow lettering on the back of their bomber jackets. It read: HOSTILE ACTIVITIES RESEARCH MINISTRY. The words confirmed all his worst fears. Was the kind of brutality to which he was being subjected now incorporated in official government policy? HARM? HARM? Had it really come to this?
Curiously, he tried to exonerate his tormentors. He told himself that it was the so-called terrorists, the Muslim suicide bombers—and their tacit support from the silent Muslim community—which had brought this disgrace on Britain…
A curtain of fear had been drawn over the once moderate and modest island.
He heard a key turn in the lock.
His skull was ringing with pain. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and held his head in his hands.
The ringing continued.
T HE BELL HAD RECENTLY been cast. It was supported on the roof of the government Center. It seemed as if everyone on Stygia was making their way to the central square. He, too, was there, going under the name of Fremant. He was weary and broken and the city he came to was gray.
Everyone was mustering in the square, looking expectantly toward the building. A large, bulky man appeared on the balcony and raised his right arm in salute. The crowd roared its acclamation for their leader, Astaroth.
Then spake he. “We were reconstituted before we arrived on Stygia. You know how many light-years we traveled. You know how we travelers became divided into rival sects once we were reconstituted. Those divisions will cease now. This stern planet welcomed us. Indeed, we hope to remain here peacefully, to built a great new civilization, with the support of WAA. But we found the planet overrun by a primitive race, the strange pack of Doglovers.
“Doglovers were the most primitive of any two-legged kind. They built no great buildings, such as this building in which I stand. They built no roads. They had no electronic devices, no mechanical articles, no nothing. They were little better than the hounds that led them about, as the blind are led by guide dogs.
“Who knows what diseases these aliens harbored, unknown to us? With the support and goodwill of distant Earth, of WAA, the Western Armed Alliance, we set about wiping out the Doglovers.
“You were—all of you, of whatever sect—part of that task. One by one our planes and probes were brought down and crashed. We couldn’t replace them. We have reason to believe that hordes of locust-like insects choked their jets. Still we fought on. Today, on this great Day of Victory, I am proud to declare that the Doglovers are destroyed, every one of them.”
The audience raised a cheer.
“Stygia is a human-owned planet at last, despite the teeming insect world.
“This time is a time of austerity. Tomorrow we must set to work to fill the empty spaces with our own kind, to build farms and houses and roads. But today at least let us celebrate our victory. I do not drink. I abjured alcohol long ago. I am a strict WAAbee. But let this day be an exception. There is free drink for you all.”
He raised a clenched fist above his head.
“Drink deep! Be briefly happy! The Doglovers are dead! We humans have crossed the gulfs of space to own, to rule, this Stygian world. We must live austere lives. Austerity must become our faith.”
He ceased speaking, and from a thousand throats a cry of triumph rose into the air.
Later, people were reeling about from the drink, eager for the escape to oblivion it provided. Several fell flat on their faces. So Prisoner B found himself, pinned to the
“Tell me what country I’m in! Please! They drugged me on the way here.”
“You’re in the shit. Shit Country.” He stamped out, followed by his lackey.
One of the guards clouted Prisoner B over the head again for good measure. Then they frog-marched him out of the room, down the broad corridor, to a room into which they kicked him.
As they turned to leave, he saw the inscription in yellow lettering on the back of their bomber jackets. It read: HOSTILE ACTIVITIES RESEARCH MINISTRY. The words confirmed all his worst fears. Was the kind of brutality to which he was being subjected now incorporated in official government policy? HARM? HARM? Had it really come to this?
Curiously, he tried to exonerate his tormentors. He told himself that it was the so-called terrorists, the Muslim suicide bombers—and their tacit support from the silent Muslim community—which had brought this disgrace on Britain…
A curtain of fear had been drawn over the once moderate and modest island.
He heard a key turn in the lock.
His skull was ringing with pain. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall and held his head in his hands.
The ringing continued.
T HE BELL HAD RECENTLY been cast. It was supported on the roof of the government Center. It seemed as if everyone on Stygia was making their way to the central square. He, too, was there, going under the name of Fremant. He was weary and broken and the city he came to was gray.
Everyone was mustering in the square, looking expectantly toward the building. A large, bulky man appeared on the balcony and raised his right arm in salute. The crowd roared its acclamation for their leader, Astaroth.
Then spake he. “We were reconstituted before we arrived on Stygia. You know how many light-years we traveled. You know how we travelers became divided into rival sects once we were reconstituted. Those divisions will cease now. This stern planet welcomed us. Indeed, we hope to remain here peacefully, to built a great new civilization, with the support of WAA. But we found the planet overrun by a primitive race, the strange pack of Doglovers.
“Doglovers were the most primitive of any two-legged kind. They built no great buildings, such as this building in which I stand. They built no roads. They had no electronic devices, no mechanical articles, no nothing. They were little better than the hounds that led them about, as the blind are led by guide dogs.
“Who knows what diseases these aliens harbored, unknown to us? With the support and goodwill of distant Earth, of WAA, the Western Armed Alliance, we set about wiping out the Doglovers.
“You were—all of you, of whatever sect—part of that task. One by one our planes and probes were brought down and crashed. We couldn’t replace them. We have reason to believe that hordes of locust-like insects choked their jets. Still we fought on. Today, on this great Day of Victory, I am proud to declare that the Doglovers are destroyed, every one of them.”
The audience raised a cheer.
“Stygia is a human-owned planet at last, despite the teeming insect world.
“This time is a time of austerity. Tomorrow we must set to work to fill the empty spaces with our own kind, to build farms and houses and roads. But today at least let us celebrate our victory. I do not drink. I abjured alcohol long ago. I am a strict WAAbee. But let this day be an exception. There is free drink for you all.”
He raised a clenched fist above his head.
“Drink deep! Be briefly happy! The Doglovers are dead! We humans have crossed the gulfs of space to own, to rule, this Stygian world. We must live austere lives. Austerity must become our faith.”
He ceased speaking, and from a thousand throats a cry of triumph rose into the air.
Later, people were reeling about from the drink, eager for the escape to oblivion it provided. Several fell flat on their faces. So Prisoner B found himself, pinned to the
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