This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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“Apparently, humans are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights,” Nestor said as he lounged in his comfortable chair on the other side of the apartment, staring into his electronic reader. He was always reading, Nestor was, whenever not otherwise occupied. The act practically defined him. He smiled. “Their creator was a bit more generous than ours, eh?”
I looked up from my own reader and smiled back. “We haven’t done so badly,” I pointed out. “Neither of us.”
“True enough,” my closest Rabbit-friend agreed as he looked around our comfortable little apartment-cell. The government of New Geneva might’ve been required by treaty to intern us, but at no point had anyone ever shown any malice or hard feelings towards any of Richard’s crew from myself on down. While our doors were perforce kept locked and our communications monitored, to my knowledge our jailors had never turned down any reasonable request. Our furnishings were more than merely comfortable. We were also permitted free access to the Genevan public library network and allowed a certain level of social interaction. Nestor and I, for example, offered several basic-skills tutoring sessions a week to any Rabbit or Dog whose owners might permit them to attend, and I’d spent not just one but many pleasant evenings dining with (by now) most of the officer corps of the New Genevan military. I’d even been allowed—under friendly but firm escort—to travel about the Station a bit from time to time in order to buy new clothing and such, and to show Nestor the suite of rooms where the big wargame tournament I so often spoke of had once been held. All in all the eighteen months I’d spent so far aboard Geneva Station were quite pleasant, and I never could understand quite why Prince Neville—who I wasn’t supposed to know was interned just down the hall and around the corner in a slightly larger set of rooms—spent so much of his time shouting and complaining and punching walls and generally being unhappy with everything in sight. Had he remained my POW aboard Richard, his circumstances would’ve been far less comfortable. The more tantrums he threw, however, the friendlier the Genevan guards grew towards Nestor and I. So, I supposed, in the end the situation favored us.