In the center of the Indian Ocean there is a fortress island where time has no meaning and no sound is ever heard. Its inhabitants are the dead of the ages, and, being perfect reflections of the living, they build their monuments with the materials at hand, using for mortar a mixture in equal portions of hatred and fear. It is a place where arrivals are frequent and departures unheard of, though there is no fear of overcrowding, the dead having in common a certain compactness that lends itself to superimposition. The armaments that mount the barracades and turrets are several and all are lethal, though there is no record of them being exercised in the defense of the territory. They are likely only sentimental expressions that the living sometimes attach to themselves at the moment of death, especially among those who enlist as volunteers. Though it is no paradise, it is a perfect democracy open to all, including the partisans of every struggle regardless of affiliation. No telling about the weather, however. It seems ever unsettled. Title | Contents | Index | Author Buleria Madrugada | Belau Belau | Fortress of the Dead | Abbe at Urban Plaza of the Patriots | Bedou | Spawning Ground | Space Station M | Maoam