People are always whinging about "choices".

As if they have any.

Back in the good ol'days, you killed for your lunch or you died.

You took the pelt off your lunch before you cooked it, both to have some clothes next week and to improve the flavour. Even the Franks don't eat horse with the skin on it...

Back in the bad ol'days, if the Laird o' the Manor called a levy, you dropped your pitchfork and picked up your pike and trudged along with the other lads to go take a poke at the team from the other side (this was before feetball) and hope to make it home in time for harvest. If you got damaged, your laird supposedly took care of your family or at least gave you a ride home so that you could limp around pitifully in familiar surroundings.

Not much in the way of choices. Either you did what you was supposed to do, worshipped what and when you was told, and wore the colours your Laird's mistress just happened to like, even though the combination had the local curs laughing at you, or you packed up what little belonged to you and went off somewhere's else, most likely to be a serf in someone's else's system.

Which is kinda what it's beginning to look like again.

Suddenly, Argentina is beginning to look awfully good.

The Escape Pod Dreams
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