Dallas planted his feet and stuck out his chin, his right hand hovering over the hilt at his belt. He took only the slightest split-second to look over at Gareth before he spoke an ancestral quote he’d heard again and again from his history tutor growing up.
“Come and take it,” he whispered.
#
Viscount Moreded looked at his ceiling, as he did every morning before rising, and thought about the many ways his life had not turned out as he’d planned.
The son of a wealthy man, who had himself been the son of a renowned warrior in a fight of some kind before the Corporates had invaded, Moreded had been used to obtaining things by request that most men throughout human history had to work very, very hard for. Unfortunately, it is an undeniable truth of human history that men and women who are given comforts throughout their lives only end up desiring more, not fewer comforts as a result.
And, should this condition persist into middle-aged adulthood, this often expresses itself as an unquenchable thirst and desire for power.
The amount of power may seem ridiculously small to an outsider; it may be perceived as a ridiculous amount of effort expended to take control of a department of study in a school, a charity committee in a church, or wrestling a place of authority from a sibling in an extended family structure, or a squabble over what terms can be used to describe another person, or what pronouns are acceptable in various groups of people. In all cases, the person in question wants to be able to control not only their lives, but the lives of others, too, and feels quite insecure if they are not at least making progress towards their goal.
But Viscount Moreded had no such insecurities, since he was making quite decent strides towards his goals in the last few hours.
The local media was alive on every stream with the story of young Dallas’ theft of the Galatine, and the cultural effect on the population of the city could not be overstated. Thanks to Dallas, there was now a huge gap in the city skyline where the giant battlemech had once stood.
“Fay,” Moreded said, “are you active?”
“Yes, Viscount Morded” purred the voice out of the air. The AI must have randomly set her temperament to something a tad more seductive today, which suited Morded just fine. TIme for that later.
“Fay,” he said, practicing the voice he’d use when giving his commentary on the situation today for the media, “which among the media figures wishes to discuss the current situation with Lord Morgan and his son?”
“All of them, Viscount. Are you ready to begin?”
“Not yet. I’ll need to freshen up first. Write a statement for me, describing how the theft of the Galatine is a natural consequence of the parenting style of Lord Morgan, and how parallels the issues with his leadership of New Avalon.”
The A.I. paused a moment. “Which issues do you refer, to, Viscount? There are very few, compared to those of governors of other colonies, thanks to Lord Morgan’s policy of a decentralized government.”
“Ah,” Moreded said with irritation, “blasted goody-goody boy. Note how slow our colony has been to grow in population and influence compared to at least three others in our locality; comparison’s always a good way to create dissatisfaction and unrest. In my speech, link Morgan’s ineffectiveness as a parent with Dallas to our…oh, blast…”
“Stagnation, Viscount?”
“Yes, that’s it. Our stagnation. With an ineffective leader like Texas Morgan at the helm of our colony, it’s no wonder we have stagnated, and his poor control over his own family reflects his poor control over the destiny or New Avalon, et cetera, et cetera, et cetra. Can you do the rest, Fay?”
“Without difficulty, Viscount Moreded.”
#
“What’d you just say to me, boy?” said the captain, his voice suddenly very quiet.
Dallas gulped. His history tutor had read him enough Sun Tzu to know what part of the battle this was; Dallas could either crumple and beg for mercy [a viable option, but not one likely to give the desired outcome], or answer evenly.
Or, he could…provoke.
“You heard me, you…you fat, ineffective Captain,” Dallas said, feeling that somewhere in the cosmos, a pair of dice had rolled at his speech and come up snake-eyes.
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The captain laughed, and even the rest of the crew chuckled. “That is, without a doubt, the worst attempt at an insult any creature has tried on me since I can remember.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Dallas said. “What I lack in insults, I’ll make up for with this. You’re not going to take it from me.”
The captain’s smile vanished. He looked back at his men, who were now looking back at him instead of their stations or the still-drying paint.
“Captain,” said Gareth, “If we’re done here? We’re willing to pay the fee you mentioned; it’s the cost of doing business- we get that. But we’d like to get our business concluded?”
There was a short pause. The Captain looked at Gareth and almost looked like he was going to agree. Then he looked at Dallas, and smirked as he rose his ponderous bulk out of his chair.
“That sounds ‘bout right, you two. Except the price has gone up during our little exchange. Bo’sun?”
“Yessir,” said a tired looking man who rose from his chair.
“Get these two to their quarters, and hand-pick three crew members to escort you while they give us every, single, Texas dollar they have out of their precious little sacks- but first, I’ll take that little trinket on his-”
He stepped down from his dias, his fat hamhand reaching for Dallas’ belt. His speed was surprising for one so huge and apparently out of shape.
Dallas’ hand leaped to his swordhilt and grabbed it in a protective grip while taking a step back from the filthy creature approaching him. Utterly by accident, his tightened grip made the half-yard long blade of pure, vaporizing light spring from the handle. The lack of any weight to the blade made it even easier for the slicing sliver of light to carve a curved, glowing path in front of him, warding off every crew member who suddenly put their hands over their eyes in an instinctive, protective action.
“Stay ba-What?” Dallas said, his voice cut off by what he saw.
The Captain’s significant;yly-sized gut had been in the path of the sword’s glowing blade.
His gut now flopped open.
Organs peeked out.
The Captain stopped. Looked down. Didn’t react.
Blood was spilling steadily, without any hurry, onto the floor of the bridge.
No one moved. The bridge was silent.
The Captain moved his hand, trying to push his stomach closed again. As his hand moved on his gut feebly, his head bowed and he toppled forward, hitting the railing that surrounded him and then the floor with a sloppy-sounding thud! onto the floor of his Captain’s dias.
There was no sound on the bridge. All the crew were looking at Dallas.
“Isn’t there a doctor, or a medbot or something?” Gareth asked.
“Doctor got sacked a year ago for drinkin’ alla time,” said a crew member with a yellow, braided beard. “An’ the Medbot ain’t worked in months. Cap’n was too cheap to buy a new battery when th’ old one ran down.”
“Can’t we- can’t we call someone?”
“They’s doctahs onna station,” said the helmsman, his voice calm and relaxed as he laced his fingers together and leaned back in his chair, “but they’s way too ‘spensive. Charge more’n the cap’n gonna make inna year. ‘Sides, he dead ennaways. Look.”
The Captain was, indeed, still. Blood was flowing out from his prone body in a widening circle that Dallas and the few other crew near it stepped back from unconsciously.
“There be poetic justice, right there for ye,” another crew member said, standing from his station and taking off the black, floppy hat on his head. “The Cap’n wouldn’t let ‘none of us go see a doctor onna station, ‘nor fix the bot. Told us to toughen up and walk it off instead’a act’ly dooin’iz duty. Now, ‘cuzah that, he dies on ‘is own bridge from a boy who’s never killed b’fore t’day.”
“I’m sorry,” Dallas said. “Really, I-”
“Oh, my,” said yet another crewmember looking at all the rest. “The boy don’ get it, do ‘ee?”
“Oh, no,” Gareth whispered.
“What? What?” Dallas said. “Do they- do I get arrested? Do they have the death penalty in this system? Do I have to call a lawyer, or-”
The laughter started at the back of the bridge, and soon, the ten or so men in the space around them were all laughing while Gareth held his face in his left hand of flesh.
“What?” Gareth asked, “What in the nine hells are they laughing about Gareth?”
“When you killed the Captain, Dallas, you got fate worse than simple incarceration.”
“What could be worse than-”
“You’re the Captain now!”
The men cheered. The blood continued to flow as a cleanbot finally activated and tried to suck it up.
“What?” Dallas said in a very quiet whisper, drowned out by the cheers of the men who were now crowding around him, congratulating him and slapping him on the shoulders.
“What?” Dallas said again, looking around him, “What…?”
-----
TO BE CONTINUED…