* * * * *
Images of a darker kind waft across the television, and the documentary’s clumsy melody turns cumbersomely dark. The streets are covered by the black banners held by marching members of the Black Sun Temple, reminding us, while we viewed the growing starship in lunar orbit as an emblem of our ascension to the stars, that those of the Black Sun Temple saw the Diana as the first omen of our doom. Sights of Black Sun Temple spires rise amid the cityscapes of all of the world’s major cities. The camera whirls and lowers upon courtyards filled with the black sun inked upon the shaved heads of women and men.
There are so many faces gathered in that dark temple’s parades that the television screen goes black. How quickly would mankind forget how many lifted that Black Sun Temple banner if this gameshow’s documentary didn’t remind us each week? None of us on Ganymede would forget. We’ve lost too much in the war finally nearing an end. We remember how many we have killed in our penitentiary’s chambers. But would those left behind on Earth forget? Did they need the injury of war to free themselves from their hate?
Is it best that each week Jackson Hardcase gives his gameshow to those on Earth who have not been lifted off their home planet to hear the sirens sing?
The Sirens' Last Lament Page 6
