plenty to do before we are finished with the aliens, Tane, but we have to start somewhere. This is just a part of the game, my friend." Grant sat down at the bench and began another set of reps with his new weights.
"Okay, Grant. I will get you what I can on Violent’s Prison...and on the Mother Ship of the Minith. Not everything has been placed into the transference library. Give me two days."
"Two days," Grant agreed in a major Musl'n dialect, another of Tane Rolan's languages. He grunted with the effort of the repetitions, but it felt wonderful. "Then we begin our war against the slave masters of Earth."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grant waded awkwardly through the crowded streets of Bst’n. Like the same city from his time, it was one of N’merca's largest and most populated. As he fought his way along the street, however, he realized the Boston he once knew was gone. Here, in its place, was a sprawling mass of bland gray concrete. The buildings had little character, and the teeming throngs of people that navigated the streets possessed even less. Most were dressed in jumpsuits of one muted shade or another. There were no bright colors or eccentric displays of individuality. Like the city itself, the clothes seemed lackluster, bleached of brightness and energy.
The people wearing the featureless jumpsuits seemed much the same. They moved slowly and quietly, as though dazed, and Grant wondered if their lethargy was a result of the Minith presence on their world, or just a symptom of living a Peace-filled existence. He hoped it was the former.
Few landmarks of the old city remained and he rued the loss of so much history. It was probable, he decided, that many of the historical sites had been torn down because they were monuments to the wars that had forged the old United States. For all of the city’s newfound dullness, the streets were surprisingly clean, and smelled of antiseptic. Grant surmised that cleanliness came with the Peace, love and brotherhood that made up the new world. Except for the Minith, of course. They were the wild card.
Grant came from a world where war was a common occurrence – too common really. He had regularly questioned the need for war, especially those wars in which he fought. But, unlike the people surrounding him now, Grant knew war was an unpleasant necessity. These people and their ancestors had worked hard to eliminate war, to erase even the thought of violence. Those were not bad goals in Grant’s view. Just unrealistic. Grant was an historian of war. He understood that fighting was sometimes needed to eliminate evils that were greater than war. Genocide, slavery, oppression, injustices in multiple forms. All were valid reasons for picking up arms and sacrificing lives. The American Civil War of the 1800’s erased the practice of slavery in the United States. Grant wondered how many of the people he passed would not be alive if that war had not happened. Or how many of these people knew their ancestors were responsible for stopping that ungodly practice? And, if they did know, how many of them would be proud of their dead kinsmen and what they accomplished through war? How many would be ashamed? Grant pondered these questions as he fought his way through the crowds. He did not know the answers. But he did know that peace would not be possible as long as the Minith noose coiled tightly around the world’s throat.
He felt awkward among the hundreds of thousands of pedestrians. He was surrounded by people, yet felt alone. He could not get used to the numbers of people that surrounded him, people so much like him, but yet so different. They were at home among the crowds, whereas he felt crushed by the mass of warm bodies pressing close as they made their way along the streets. Grant estimated that the crowded avenues he walked along held at least a million people. And that was a conservative estimate, he soon decided.
He looked into the faces he passed and saw men, women and children who,
"Okay, Grant. I will get you what I can on Violent’s Prison...and on the Mother Ship of the Minith. Not everything has been placed into the transference library. Give me two days."
"Two days," Grant agreed in a major Musl'n dialect, another of Tane Rolan's languages. He grunted with the effort of the repetitions, but it felt wonderful. "Then we begin our war against the slave masters of Earth."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Grant waded awkwardly through the crowded streets of Bst’n. Like the same city from his time, it was one of N’merca's largest and most populated. As he fought his way along the street, however, he realized the Boston he once knew was gone. Here, in its place, was a sprawling mass of bland gray concrete. The buildings had little character, and the teeming throngs of people that navigated the streets possessed even less. Most were dressed in jumpsuits of one muted shade or another. There were no bright colors or eccentric displays of individuality. Like the city itself, the clothes seemed lackluster, bleached of brightness and energy.
The people wearing the featureless jumpsuits seemed much the same. They moved slowly and quietly, as though dazed, and Grant wondered if their lethargy was a result of the Minith presence on their world, or just a symptom of living a Peace-filled existence. He hoped it was the former.
Few landmarks of the old city remained and he rued the loss of so much history. It was probable, he decided, that many of the historical sites had been torn down because they were monuments to the wars that had forged the old United States. For all of the city’s newfound dullness, the streets were surprisingly clean, and smelled of antiseptic. Grant surmised that cleanliness came with the Peace, love and brotherhood that made up the new world. Except for the Minith, of course. They were the wild card.
Grant came from a world where war was a common occurrence – too common really. He had regularly questioned the need for war, especially those wars in which he fought. But, unlike the people surrounding him now, Grant knew war was an unpleasant necessity. These people and their ancestors had worked hard to eliminate war, to erase even the thought of violence. Those were not bad goals in Grant’s view. Just unrealistic. Grant was an historian of war. He understood that fighting was sometimes needed to eliminate evils that were greater than war. Genocide, slavery, oppression, injustices in multiple forms. All were valid reasons for picking up arms and sacrificing lives. The American Civil War of the 1800’s erased the practice of slavery in the United States. Grant wondered how many of the people he passed would not be alive if that war had not happened. Or how many of these people knew their ancestors were responsible for stopping that ungodly practice? And, if they did know, how many of them would be proud of their dead kinsmen and what they accomplished through war? How many would be ashamed? Grant pondered these questions as he fought his way through the crowds. He did not know the answers. But he did know that peace would not be possible as long as the Minith noose coiled tightly around the world’s throat.
He felt awkward among the hundreds of thousands of pedestrians. He was surrounded by people, yet felt alone. He could not get used to the numbers of people that surrounded him, people so much like him, but yet so different. They were at home among the crowds, whereas he felt crushed by the mass of warm bodies pressing close as they made their way along the streets. Grant estimated that the crowded avenues he walked along held at least a million people. And that was a conservative estimate, he soon decided.
He looked into the faces he passed and saw men, women and children who,
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