We should be grateful, do you think? To you?” The skeleton
spat. “It was _our_ machinery that tore everything apart? _We_ caused the droughts and the floods and put our own homes underwater? And afterward, when we came here across a whole ocean—if we did not starve first or cook in the sun or die with our bodies stuffed with worms and things that _your_ drugs have made unkillable — when we ended here we are supposed to be _grateful_ that you let us sleep on this little patch of mud, we are supposed to _thank_ you because so far it is cheaper to drug us than mow us down?
The Rifters trilogy, written at the dawn of the century, is so ahead of its time and I haven’t even started the third book yet. In fact I’m a bit scared of its prophecy.