'Tis not in season, to talk of Reason
Or call it Legal, when the Sword will have it Treason
-The Power (or Dominion) of the Sword, ballad from the English Civil War
Speaking with the Leftenant-Colonel through a final warning of impending liftoff and a countdown convinced me that his presence is definitely ‘exciting’. According to him, good portions of the militia that he’d been leading only months before have no idea whatsoever that the Baron is selling-out the planet to pirates or running what amounts to a gulag for any opposition to him—A gulag he’d been dropped into after looking too deep into the Baron’s personal failures. I try not to salivate too much at the prospect that dangles of
other people who can be drafted into the matter of bringing Tsanma to justice. Maybe I can come out of this with all the
credit for axing a piece-of-shit Feddie nobleman without having to put my ass in danger to do it.
It’s not that I’m a cowa—Alright, no, scratch that. It’s definitely from being a coward. But it’s
also just smart! I’m about to inflict my surname on all the pirates who would crew the weapons of war that might force the man out of his position. So I’m going to need other people like the Lieutenant-Colonel to do the heavy lifting on that! An attempt to kil—bring to justice Baron Tsanma would be just plain dumb if it didn’t actually
work.
I manage not to let my rushed plotting interfere with the conversation with Gerard. Most of the other slaves seem to be too intimidated by me to do much more than observe from a distance, but there’s still entirely too many that approach over the few minutes and do everything from briefly engage in the conversation I’m having with the man by offering suggestions or ideas for what to do all the way to a few who
hug me and
cry into my blouse.
Even after I manage to suppress the expectation of something sharp penetrating into my side during one of the hugs it’s still…Inappropriate and undeserved. But I can’t
tell them that. Not if I want to get any use out of them. So I don’t. I
bask in it instead. Gently returning the occasional embrace and fixing others with what I try to make a reassuring look. Their gratitude and warped, misplaced respect are no replacement for all the money in bounties I’m giving up, but it’s almost as good as fear.
Almost.
The loud, bone-shaking thrust of the dropship up and out of the atmosphere comes at the middle of the discussion. I do learn a good bit and get him and a few other slaves to understand my plan for the rest of the crew even with the weight of g-forces bearing down and slowing down the talk considerably. It’s not helped at
all by the fact I have to bear the acceleration inside the slave hold where a comfortable seat is nothing but a pipe dream. The mother of the boy I’d saved had quietly offered me a wad of scrap-fabric she was using as a cushion. But I’d forced myself to refuse. It wouldn’t have given the right impression.
As the dropship’s acceleration begins to trail off and the lift brings me up towards the bridge a short while later, I’m starting to regret that decision. The gradual loss of any weight on it as we transition to zero-gravity helps a little, but my butt
hurts from spending minutes of high-g rattlecan-shaking on nothing but a makeshift seat atop a hard, metal deck. The worst part is I don’t even have the release of being able to complain about it to anybody! I’d sent Sarah to make sure Arthur’s room was sealed-off and nobody would bumble into my second-in-command’s dead body, and the good Leftenant-Colonel was subtly organizing the slaves into something that
might be able to secure the ship after my dramatic assistance.
“My
butt hurts.” I complain to the empty lift, rubbing the offending section of fa—
muscle. Definitely muscle. No one shall dare even think differently including
myself!
The lift only hums. But I pretend it’s a sympathetic rather than mechanical hum and it makes me feel a little better anyway. That wasn’t crazy, was it?
I sigh, trying not to quiver in fear or anticipation of what’s coming even if everything goes right.
Especially if everything goes right. “It’ll be fine. One problem at a time.”
I blink, “
And now I’m talking to myself. Not
healthy, Lady. That’s what
crazy people do. Get your head on right before you make some stupid, naïve decision again and land yourself in prison. Or worse. If they catch-on, you just
know ‘Lady Death sentenced to surname’ is the kind of stupid,
wonderful pun they’re gonna run on the headlines. Can’t give them that
satisfaction.”
Deal with my crew. Deal with Baron Tsanma. Get my pardon. Do whatever I needed to bounce my way to the other side of the Inner Sphere and team-up with my sister with what I had. The original plan still holds together. This is just a sidetrack where I’ll be putting an entire
planet’s worth of do-goodery to my moral scorecard. That has to count for something!
Of course what it
doesn’t count for is ‘C-Bills’. Gonna cost me a good number of them. So, really, how much it counted was kind of debatable? I’m putting myself in danger for a political ‘attagirl’ and warm fuzzies?
But I still get to kill people so maybe it balances out? Pressing a button might not be as satisfying as something more
personal, but it was the results that count! The simple fact at the end that I’m alive and making decisions while they’re not.
I clench my teeth and focus on the lift’s indicator as it crawls back towards the bridge. After too long, it finally opens. I grab hold of the doors so I have something to pull against to send me forward through the hall in zero-gee.
The real problem with losing the ‘captured alive’ bounties on my men is that it’s going to be even harder to afford the experienced, professional shrinkery some of my screwiest thoughts call for.
I pause, holding myself up before I float down the hall. Using one hand, I leverage my way partially back into the lift. With my free arm, I scrape across the controls of the lift, watching the buttons light-up in a golden display of color that brings a smile to my face and delights my inner child.
The scratch-marks my nails leave-behind in the metal between the buttons delights another part of me still flush with the memory of what they’d done to Arthur.
I push myself out of the lift. No time for looking back, and maybe I shouldn't. But whatever. It’s
showtime.
I somehow contain my urge to make jazz-hands as I float towards the bridge.