One of them looked at a datapad, then at their table. Back to the datapad.
His face hardened, looked at the other four, nodded.
“Oh, flup,” Joker whispered under his breath.
#
“It must be remembered,” said Viscount Moreded’s face as it bobbed on top of the circular holo-screen, “that although we are a tolerant society, our rights, freedoms and responsibilities of all citizens are based upon the full seventy-three books of the Bible. And within those pages it clearly states that if a man cannot control his own family, he cannot be trusted with the authority that comes with stewardship over others.”
Huston looked at the Viscount’s head and snorted scornfully. “The last time that walking sack of bile and misdirected ambition opened up a bible on his own was probably at his Confirmation, about seventy years ago,” he said into a microphone. “If you see him on the street ask him what his favorite Bible verse is, and why he hasn’t been seen at Mass for the last two decades unless it was at the funeral of one of his political rivals.”
“Or one of his seven marriages- guess he missed the part in the Gospels about divorce being bad, huh?”
Laugher from the virtual audience. Viscount Moreded’s head inflated until it turned a rosy pink, then blue. The lips kept moving and the voice still spoke at a shrinking volume while the recorded audience laughed harder, and the recorded sound of air inflating a balloon became louder and louder until-
POP!
Morded’s head disappeared, leaving a headless body with a series of insulting names appearing to jump out of the ‘neck’ where the head had been.
More laughter, with Morded’s voice continuing as a mumble in the far background.
“Cut, print, upload,” Austin said, tapping a different button on his console after each word.
“What’s the rating?” Huston said, looking closely at a number of readouts on his own console, across the projector screen from his brother.
“Circulation is… seventeen percent higher than the last news conference that Moreded held. Approval rating is…ready?”
“Austin, just give me the data, will you?”
“Seventy-six-point-seven percent higher!”
“Good. Everyone likes the laughs more than the bloviating.”
“Like Merrylion, said when we were kids and studying Horace,” Austin said, his elation at the media results showing through, “Reason has no argument against ridicule!”
#
Viscount Moreded looked at the parody of himself that had just been released on the infranet.
His face remained placid, even as his ‘head’ on the holoprojector in the middle of the room inflated to the sound of the disrespectful commentary by the two hooligans who’d made the thing. He paused, and then spoke without looking at the two suited flunkies who were standing by his bedchamber door.
“What effect is this having on my campaign?” he said quietly.
The flunkies looked at each other. “Th-this is…well, currently,” he stammered, looking at his datapad, “the piece is getting, at last count, ah- significantly more news than your last press conference.”
“Define…significant,” Moreded said, still unmoving.
The first flunky looked at the second. The second fumbled, looked at his own datapad, and spoke as best he could under the circumstances. “At last count, Viscount, visuals are up on that piece over your last press conference by approximately…ah… seventy nine percent.”
“What course of action do we take, now, I should wonder.”
“Sir? With…ah…with all do respect, we’re here to carry out your wishes.”
“Yes sir, Viscount Moreded. We are your assistants, not consultants.”
“Indeed. That is why I wondered, and expected the pair of you to remain silent.”
They remained silent for the next very, very tense minute.
“Fai,” said Moreded, suddenly turning away from them, “find a situation where an older person such as myself found himself in a media conflict with younger, more media savvy opponents, and yet prevailed. How did they do so?”
“Viscount Moreded, dear,” purred the voice from the ceiling in the style he’d asked her to maintain, “most recently, in the Landrigan conflict of 2714, the elder statesman of Eoulus-three won a war of words against two younger nobles by finding blackmail material on both of them, and making it public without first making it a threat.”
“Indeed. Does any such information exist on the two…persons who made this latest monstrosity against me?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Their voices are disguised and encrypted, making their identification difficult. However, in the meantime, I can attempt to decrypt and learn their identities and manufacture scandalous material that could be disseminated from various pulpits in the New Avalon this Sunday.”
“Which pulpits are loyal to me?”
“Father Spivy at Saint Hillary’s Anglican has remained loyal to you since you became a regular contributor, as has Brother Pastor William Robert at the First Reformed Baptist Temple of Peace and Justice.”
“Not good enough. This is Catholic territory. Which priests are most likely to be bought?”
“Father Send at Saint Aloysius has been known to bury people in consecrated ground without the benefit of the sacraments if their relatives contributed substantially to the building fund first.”
“Fine. Get him on board. What about in the lower levels? That’s where the muscle is.”
“Unfortunately, the major parish that serves the poor and destitute is Saint Mazinga. It’s pastor, Father Chow, is legendary among the populace for his virtue and incorrupt nature.”
“Find some dirt on him then.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And you two?”
“Yes sir!”
“Earn the wages I pay you. Get the word out to those clerics, and get yourselves a meeting with this…Father Send, or whatever his name is. I want sermons going out to ever churchgoer they can reach that Texas Morgan is an unfit ruler, an immoral man, and anything else they can think of to weaken his position.”
“Yes sir!”
#
“What do we do?” Joker whispered.
The large man had not turned around, and kept his eyes on his drink. “How many?” he asked.
“Five,” said Yue. “Records unavailable due to Corporate encryption and jamming of-”
“I can take on one,” Anja said. “House?”
“Three. That’s my record, if they know how to fight. Joker?”
“One, maybe. I’m a mech-jockey, remember?”
“Yeah, all too well. Okay, ready on-” House held up his thumb, index and middle finger.
Everyone looked at his hand.
He tucked in his thumb.
Then the middle finger.
His index finger was halfway in when-
#
“Suggestions?” Dallas said as the five Corporates walked in the door, and their leader ID’d the table of his new employees.
“You could let the chips fall- see if they’re good fighters outside of the cockpit.”
“You don’t like that, Gareth. I can hear it in your voice.”
“You could jump in with your photonic blade, and cut ‘em into pieces.”
“I’m going to need enough therapy from the last time I used this.”
“Then…come up with your own idea.”
Dallas thought for a second, as the five began walking towards the table at the back of the bar. None of the ‘bots nor the patrons seemed aware of the drama being played out in front of them.
“Can you speak Corporate, Gareth?”
“Rusty. I know just enough of one of the three major dialects to get myself in trouble. Why?”
“I’m gonna yell. You translate.”
“Oh, dear Saint Marciano,” he mumbled as House counted down his first finger, “fine.”
“Hey,” Dallas said.
No one answered. House counted down his second finger as the Corporates moved closer, following a direct line to Joker’s table.
“What’s a bad insult these guy’s ‘ll recognize?”
“Uh- try ‘hey, long-zuh!’ ”
“HEY! LONG-ZUH!”
The leader stopped. The other four stopped behind him.
The leader slowly turned around, and the others did the same. Now, they were all focused on Dallas.”
“What did I just say to them?” Dallas asked Gareth out of the corner of his mouth.
“I’m pretty sure you called them a bunch of deaf people,” Gareth said.
“Pretty sure?”
“Well, either that or you said you’d had relations with all their mothers and you want your money back. Context is a slippery thing…”
Dallas didn’t wait any more. Locking eyes with the leader like he’d seen his heroes do in holovids, he slid off his bar seat and began walking towards the Corporates.
The bar had gotten very, very quiet.
“What’s he doing?” Joker said.
“I t’ink hees fighting for us,” Anja said.
“Whatever the reason, I don’t care,” House mumbled. “He gets them off our butts, he’s my boss for life.”
“Yue, what’d he say to them?”
“Depending upon the dialect they employ, the region of corporate space the warriors hail from and the economic stratum they were raised in, the Captain’s comment could either have accused them of deafness or having mothers that were underperforming prostitutes.”
Everyone was silent as the leader moved through his men, past the other bar patrons and stood a dozen feet away from Dallas with an unblinking, expressionless face.
“Bǎ tā ná huíqù, fǒuzé wǒ huì qiēduàn nǐ de yīnjīng,” he said slowly and distinctly. It was the kind of tone one might use trying to explain theoretical physics to an idiot child.
“Which means?” Dallas said.
“That, I dunno, boss,” Gareth said.
“He said,” piped up a small, female voice from Joker’s table, “that if you do not retract that statement, he will unman you.”
“Fine. Tell him I’ll take it back. When he and his crew turn around, leave, and chooses a different day to bother my crew.”
The young voice spoke quickly, confidently and flawlessly as several of the bar patrons began leaving through the door. The bots were nowhere to be seen, all of a sudden.
The leader responded with a snarl, speaking more words as with one hand he drew a knife with a curved, serrated blade and with the other he drew a small, dark metal pistol.
His followers all did the same.
Joker, House, Anja and Yue all stood up from their table and drew weapons as well; House had an ugly looking, large-barreled blaster that he held in both of his large, leather-gloved hands. Joker had drawn two small matching pistols from the many pouches in his vest, and Yue had adopted a fighting stance with small, photonic blades popping out from knuckle-greaves on her fists. Anja had a snub-nosed pistol in one hand made of red steel, while in the other hand she held a weapon Dallas had never seen before; the handle was a small baton, built to be held by a single hand. But the business-end glowed like a red- photonic blade. It was also curved, looking like a sharp-ended semi-circle about the diameter of a human head.
Dallas popped his blade and held it’s hilt with both hands, looking steadily at the eyes of the Corporate leader, his own glowing blade squarely between both the eyes of the steady gaze of his enemy.
“I will take your ear and sword,” the leader said, slowly.
“Come and take them,” Dallas said.
The leader charged.
#
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TO BE CONTINUED....