The Many Faces of Patriotism

The gate to the internment camp slowly swung open and the armored truck drove in. The detectors barely moved when it passed them and decontam was postponed until the next detour through a RadSec.

The driver hopped out, wearing the dark uniform of the U.R.C. Inquisition. Under his watchful eye, the back of the truck was opened and a ragged prisoner escorted into an interrogation room.

“Welcome to Montana, comrade. Do you mind if I smoke?” The inquisitor lit a cigarette and savored the rush before continuing. “I just want you to answer a few questions. Once you are done, you’ll be free to leave. Now, it says here that you were caught breaking curfew outside the Commonwealth, on the border of a Rebel State, and with forged papers.”

The captive kept quiet.

“I can’t believe you people are still resisting.” The stern man pointed out the window to a light shining from the moon. “Can you see that? That’s Ahkmanov, our moon-city, the first of many. You lost everything under Reagan.”

“Except our freedom.”

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