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   Chapter 33 No.33

High Steaks By Christina Engela Characters: 5856

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:01


What had made him so suitable for this high position, aside from his extreme dedication to the cause and his supreme determination to excel – perhaps in his own view, was the very strong feeling that this was his Destiny!

From the lofty heights of a guard tower, in the company of several grinning D.R.A. troopers, junior officers and NCO's, he watched the mass of miserable prisoners milling about in the central space of a brand new prison camp with a mixture of horror, fascination and a sense of pride and accomplishment. Between his tower and another further along the perimeter fence, below, was the only way in or out of the new concentration camp.

A sign above the gate proclaimed:

"Welcome to Xanadu Re-education Facility!"

That made him smile a wry little smile. The personal touch, he felt, made all the difference! After all, who here, but he and the D.R.A. troops stationed here – in the middle of the ass-end of nowhere – would appreciate it?

He was absolutely committed to the national-socialist principles of the D.R.A., being first and foremost the ideological and physical separation of the purest core of the human race from the impure masses of sub-human, non-human and mixed races. To that end, the D.R.A. had a unique plan, to detain foreign aliens living on Deanna in a holding facility – and to return them to their home worlds in the near future.

The D.R.A. was not foolish enough to think that foreign alien powers would take any blatant hostility against their citizens lying down. These aliens and non-human former residents of Deanna would be encouraged to take any mixed-race family or offspring with them when they left, including any pure-blood humans who had tainted their human blood, with them!

These

was missing. Having been rudely wrenched from its place of honor, it had been used by the D.R.A. as a battering ram to break down the doors of the Governor's Palace. It's whereabouts – if anyone passing by wondered, was a mystery. Nobody appeared willing to consider looking for it on the porch of the former Governor's Palace!

The garish flag of the D.R.A. fluttered from the tallest flag pole in front of the Palace. A squad of twenty D.R.A. troopers marched smartly on the broad sidewalk past the front of the Palace, on patrol. The Court building was closed, as was Atro City University.

The wreck of Prince Justin's convertible had been towed, and of the terrible events that day, no sign remained. People milled this way and that, crossing the streets, wandering around the Square and visiting the little shops and stalls that graced one corner of it. Some unhappy commuters grumbled unhappily about Abrecht's being closed. There was no sign of the quirky shopkeeper about, and his little coffee shop – a quaintly decorated former shipping container surrounded by empty garden chairs and unoccupied tables covered by umbrellas, stood silent and deserted.

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