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The Dallas Morgan Chronicles
Part 2 Chapter XIX- A Conversation With A Comrade...

Part 2 Chapter XIX- A Conversation With A Comrade...

Lord Moreded sat in the chair that had, until very recently, belonged to Texas Morgan, Earl of the House of Morgan, and leader of the colony world of New Avalon.

“Fay?” he said to the air.

“At your service, Dear,” the feminine voice purred.

“Of course you are, Fay. How is the populace responding to my first wave of propaganda?”

“In the latest survey, the four-thousand, three-hundred and ninety-seven who responded, representing approximately seven percent of the population of the fortress city. Citizen response in the outer farm territories and homesteads had a response rate of approximately one-point-seven-five percent.”

Moreded drummed his fingers on the desk. “This is not how I intended things to be at this juncture, Fay. Of those who responded, how many support me over the House of Morgan?”

“Of those responses recorded, the response ‘somewhat supportive’ was the most often selected at eighty-two percent, while ‘completely supportive’ was the least chosen with exactly two votes.”

Moreded blinked. “Two?” he said incredulously.

“Yes, Lord Moreded.”

“Two percent?”

“No, Lord Moreded. Two votes.”

“That means, if another rebellion arose, I could count on the support of exactly…”

“Less than one-half of one percent, my good and loyal comrade!”

Morded started. The voice that had spoken wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was unexpected.

A man had emerged from behind a standing curtain in the room, one that covered the entrance to the men’s bathroom. He was muscular and clean-shaven, sporting a smooth face and bristly short, dark hair. His face was lined with just a few wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth that would likely become more pronounced later in life. His eyes were dark, focused, and mis-matched his smiling mouth. He was wearing the dark shirt, jacket and trousers common to men his age in his own territories, clothes which made it impossible to ignore the small, otherwise unobtrusive, five-pointed red star pinned in his jacket’s lapel.

And, if the pin and clothes did not successfully give away his heritage, his thick, Red Star Coalition accent could and should have done the job effectively.

“Fay,” said Moreded rising, the slightest tinge of fear audible in his voice, “why didn’t you tell me he was here?”

“Viscount Moreded, dear,” Fay said through the ceiling, her sultry voice now sounding pouting having detected his anger and fear through her vocal analysis subroutines, “this location has not been converted fully to being your office. Were we at home, I would have alerted you to Representative Yevpraksiya Volkova’s presence before you entered.”

“Besides, my dear comrade,” Volkova said as he approached the desk Moreded sat behind, “we are friends now, yes? We have given you all the assistance you requested in terms of men, technology, and funds. And now, now that the archaic, midhistorical version of government has been deposed, we can focus on giving the people of New Avalon the type of personal freedom and dignity that all people have craved for all time, yes?”

“Let us hope so, Volkova. More specifically, let us hope that the propaganda officers you’ve sent along will do a better job of seeing me as the new leader of this colony.”

“Ah, comrade!” Volkova now was in front of the desk, fingertips and straightened fingers supporting his considerable musculature as he leaned forward, “or, excuse me, brother as you’ve said your people would prefer. There is always an adjustment period as our Truth Officers learn what befits the local culture…”

“Well, perhaps they could’ve talked to me, or another citizen before my popularity fell lower than a mining shaft in Tartarus!”

Volkova’s smile shifted, just a bit. “Com-brother Morded, may I sit down, please?”

Morded nodded, shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands slightly in a ‘whatever’ gesture. Volkova sat in the chair with a contented sigh, looking up at the bare, light-colored space on the wall where the portraits of the Earl and his family used to be. “Brother Morded, I do believe we’ve entered another stage of a society’s conversion to the glorious revolution, the revolution that continues on after over a thousand years of progressive, dialectical conflict with repressive, capitalist societies like the one my people have just helped you depose.”

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“Really? And what stage is that?”

“It’s official name is-” here Volkova gave a multi-syllabic name in his people’s tongue which Morded forgot instantly. “But, a more accurate translation in your people’s language might be, “The people can go ‘eff’ themselves.”

“What?”

“You are worried about the people’s favoring of you and your new position of leadership, brother Morded. You are worried, that perhaps they will overthrow you as you overthrew their last leader, who ideally shall not be named during this period of transition. And this is precisely because you wish to hold on to the old ways of your world, one where the foolish, unwashed masses decided for themselves what their best interests were.

“But now, Brother, now, you need not worry about that. When you as the leader control the food, the water, the law, the entertainment, all that they will receive? Like or dislike becomes, eh…” Volkova pointed his closed fist at the window and splayed his fingers out towards the sky slowly. “If they believe that now, there are always shortages and crises of supply, they will work hard to be the best citizens they could be, to get the scraps that will fall from your table. Love? Popularity? Who will care? Who needs these things, when they will obey, and will do so unthinkingly and utterly willingly, and all for the price of a decent loaf of bread, or a new pair of shoes, which may not show up on the store shelves but once or twice a year?”

“I’ve heard of this working in other places, Brother Volkova. But you forget, this is New Avalon. Texas Morgan has been fostering a culture for two generations of people who look critically at their leaders, judge them, and feel just fine about deposing them with a gun barrel if they feel things are unfair at the ballot tablet. What then?”

“Then, Brother, you make certain they have no gun barrels, either. In the interests of the own personal safety, of course.”

“Confiscation of private property? I think you’ve seriously underestimated the resolve and culture of these people, Volokova. They’ll only give up their weapons when you pry them from their cold, dead fingers.”

“Of course, Brother Morded! And we have just the people to do that, on live holovision, so that all will see just what wrong-think will obtain for them- the ultimate freedom, freedom from this mortal world. But-

Volkova’s comlink began beeping. A split-second later, Moreded’s began to do the same.

“Excuse me, brother Moreded,” Volkova said, tapping the screen of his wrist -com.

Moreded did the same, as Volkova began speaking a rapid-fire version of the Red Star dialect into his device.

Moreded did the same, tapping another portion on the screen which would pipe communication through the silent implant in his cochlear nerve. “What?” he whispered.

“Viscount Moreded, this is Sergeant Orkney.”

“Yes?”

“Sir, there are three developments I thought it wise to inform you of. First, Chief inspector Kai is currently unaccounted for.”

“That’s to be expected,” Moreded said, standing from his chair and facing the wall as he spoke. “I never thought he’d acknowledge me as leader. Find him and shoot him for resisting, whether he does or not. Also, order the local media operative to create a piece about him being…hm…no, embezzler wouldn’t stick. The child-molester angle’s overdone. Say that evidence was discovered of him being a rapist of female prisoners in the lock-up. What’s the second piece?”

“Huston and Austin Morgan are unsecure. Their transport crashed after curfew in a populated area. One report was filed about an independent med-transport that picked the up and has since disappeared.”

“Blast. Well, find them. This is a fortress city, not a Dyson’s sphere. There’s only a few places they could’ve gone. Last thing?”

“It would seem that, despite your orders, the flag you constructed and directed to be flown atop the LoneStar starport has been replaced.”

Morded paused. “Sergeant, you are aware why that is significant, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Despite the abysmal state of public education in this colony, they did tell you the law here? That whatever flag flies from the highest point in the colony denotes the highest authority?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you understand, that as of twenty four hours ago, despite the help from our - ah-” he stole a glance at the still seated form of the Volkova, who was frowning and jabbering even more quickly at his wrist, the volume raising if the voice coming from his wrist tried to get a word in edgewise. “Our brothers from the Red Star Coalition, I am now that authority?”

“Absolutely, sir!”

“Then why is there another flag flying atop that spaceport? And why haven’t you executed whoever put it there?”

“Because I cannot execute either the entire Red Star Coalition, or Comrade Volkova while he’s in Te- in your office, sir!”

Moreded paused again. “Let me be absolutely certain of what you are telling me, Sergeant: You are saying, to me, on my phone, right now, that the Red Star Coalition flag is flying from atop my spaceport?”

TO BE CONTINUED...