Fortified and overgrown with War-Domes bulging out like gruesome tumors and bristling with weapons systems, Deimos hangs like an ungainly, misshapen parody of a sentinel above a thick white cloud of strands. I am reminded of Dogpatch from the old plays I watched when I was still alive. Shakespeare is banned now. Lost and forgotten. A 'potentially corruptive influence' that somehow might bring back English as a dominant language. I don't miss it. There's no room for such things any more. Better to be cold. Ruthless. On task. Or so the Ministers chatter from the safety of their pleasure bunkers. They're the same ones who blamed the Fall of Mars on those of us who actually fought against the then unknown new enemy. Against Dhole Bombs. Deimos passes us onward with no glitches, no problems. A nice change of pace from the way it used to be. Maybe it's lonely, being the only survivor. It's partner moon, Phobos was shattered by an ill-advised attempt to deploy anti-matter weapons against the Dholes. We didn't have a good grasp of the implications. Probably still don't. Nobles don't care for those sorts of considerations. It smells like cowardice to them. I begin to recite the Litanies against Fear and the Unknown. Just in case. We're probably still within range of a Monitor. Most of them can't penetrate my static defenses. Officially. But a few of us have learned the hard way that only fools trust the official version of anything.
