Free Vyyda Book 1: The Haver Problem by Kevin Bliss Page B

group of Americans just down the way from our Islington bunch who provided a bit of entertainment.
     
    Grey-uniformed "facilitators" have been present in small bunches ever since our arrival.  Their stated purpose is to aid in our transition to new lives, but their demeanor and occasional forcefulness suggests a more sinister reality.  One week ago, they began to appear, little by little, in our cavernous holding area.  Before long, there were several dozen.  The only weapons visible among them were batons harnessed across their backs, easily retrieved.  None of them spoke at first.  The rest of us let our conversations dwindle. 
     
    A pointy-nosed facilitator arrived and spoke, informing us that we should be prepared to move and be sorted for final destinations shortly.  He repeated the message again and again as he walked through the crowd, dozens of his men behind him.  Pointy-nose didn't bother to raise his voice much.  He seemed to want anyone just out of range to make the effort to get closer and hear him.  He was cocksure and cold; proudly insensitive to the anxiety and suffering around him.
     
    The other facilitators began separating people from the few personal possessions they'd been allowed to bring – one small bag each, at most.  If you couldn't wear it on your person, it was taken away.  Each individual was searched, forced to turn pockets inside-out. Worse yet, confiscation did not end with material goods.  The groups from various parts of the globe which had remained segregated until arriving in the holding area had started to disperse and blend into one another.  Facilitators, under the watchful eye of pointy-nose, began shoving people back into point-of-origin categories.
     
    One group I knew to be French were addressed by pointy-nose:  "You will all take the surname of Grenoble."
     
    The message was related in French by one of the other facilitators.  Immediately after the translation, another gaggle of these unctuous authority figures went from man to woman and child, recording them one by one on devices that indicated "rebirth", erasing previous identities.  I could hear small bits of complaint exchanged between the new "Grenobles"; unfortunately my French is so poor that none of it made sense.
     
    This is roughly where the Americans brilliantly entered the picture.
     
    As facilitators followed pointy-nose down through the crowd, the Americans watched from perhaps fifty meters away, figuring out what was happening and chattering among themselves.  The pushing, pulling and renaming of people drew ever closer to the refugees from the U.S.
     
    I suppose it's not only Americans who would have done what they were cooking up.  They certainly had time to assemble a plan.  Yet, there was something quite "Yankee" about it – insofar as I claim to understand the American nature and spirit.
     
    One facilitator asked a trio of U.S. men what city they came from, only to receive defiant stares and replies such as, "Figure it out yourself" and "Your ass".  Another American announced that he was from the moon and had only been on Earth to visit relatives.
     
    "You made a big mistake dragging me all the way out here.  When everybody on the moon learns about this, you'll lose your fancy uniforms."
     
    We laughed.  All of us that understand English, anyroad (as my Yorkshire-born countrymen, just down the way from me would have said).  Even those who didn't speak the language began to laugh, as such responses are infectious.
     
    When the facilitator stood straighter, tightened his jaw and demanded the names of each person in the little group, they responded with names that I recognized as those of past American presidents:  Theodore Roosevelt, John Kennedy and Stuart Abramson.  One large man with a beard close by, wanting to get in on the action, identified himself as former president Elizabeth Steele.  The laughter continued.  More barbs from observers on the fringe and general