I must agree. We have been put on the back foot by the attack on our spaceport; we will need the port fully functional before we can even consider retaliation. A canny move, on their part.
Once we have rebuilt our ability to launch and land spacecraft, then we can put to the test the adage that the best defense is a good offense. Until then, we will need to instead depend on our best defense being a prepared fortification.
Oh mr. karekin,
My luck seems to have run out again. First the travesty at the ball and now I am not a leading citizen in any area. starts weeping
and I’m almost all out of money because my whip weed farm is a complete failure. What am I to do?
Isn’t there anything which the rest of us True Citizens can do to help the common good?
Your true friend,
Lady Elizabeth
correction amended. thanks.
Your mysterious adversary has placed a hex on you!
Pffffft. Amateur! You call that a hex? I’ll hex you so thoroughly your own mother won’t recognize you…
Dear Lady Elizabeth.
You ARE a leading citizen of Weatherby in BUS. Your name was omitted from the table only due to a quirk of the statistics. Your cousin has the highest BUS at 57. No surprise there. However the next three Leviathan’s members have BUS of 46, 47, 49 – an inconsequential difference given that all other members have BUS of 40 or less.
You run a successful Printing Business; Weatherby needs your BUS skills. May I entreat you to consider
Prepare 3 DEFENSE
At Your Service,
Mr. Jules Karekin
St-Patrick-Hartbrooke takes up his quill and dips it into his inkwell.
To Whom It May Concern,
There is an error in the latest issue of the Weatherby Space Times. The murtherer is referred to as both a Citizen-Pretender and a member in good standing at the Leviathan Club, which, as all cultured True Citizens know, are mutually exclusive terms.
You may wish to issue a correction, retraction, or clarification, as necessary.
Your servant,
[Overzealously embiggened signature]
Aaaakzeee St-Patrick-Hartbrooke III
The Ambassador curls a sardonic lip as she turns the page. “Well, thank Herpeton we have the Gryphon around to enforce the social stratification around here. In times of woe and uncertainty, we can take comfort in the reliably hidebound bigotry of ol’ Beakpuss.”
Dear Reputable Mister J. Rothschild Karekin,
Do you care to attempt this calculation for a third time, or perhaps it’s occasion leave the business of tallies and analysis to @Eighth?
Yours sincerely,
Cmdr. Piker
PS- With your talent for creative accounting, perchance you might consider pursuing novel endeavors in interstellar finance. Self-interested calculation, indeed!
You are quite right, commander. Thank you for catching my error.
A fine example of why all accounts of consequence should be audited!
His feet glide across the floor, never straying outside the box he’s laid out with tape, but maneuvering through the entirety of it as he keeps himself focused on a single point. His fists lash out swift and hard, striking only at air, for that’s the only thing here to hit. His lungs burn, unable to pull in enough air to fully fuel his actions, even as his heart demands more, more, more.
Up, up, keep 'em up. His arms don’t want to stay up anymore, but this isn’t a democracy. He wants them up, they’re up. If he slacks off now, what happens when it matters? Jab, jab, jab, BOOM. Make it hurt, make it count.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should have known better. Ideas are easy, but when have the powerful ever been inclined to think of anyone other than themselves? This society? Fair? He’d laugh if it weren’t so pathetically otherwise. Take him and Hartbrooke (@nimelennar), for example. The worst Liv has done is take the place of someone who’d squandered everything and was in no shape to take advantage of his newly inherited fortune. Hartbrooke on the other hand is a genuine stone killer. Yet who was it the authorities came after? God forbid someone try to make something of themselves or take the breaks they got. Must punish that. But a TC… forget anything short of murder, they can outright kill someone in front of a goddamned audience and everyone will applaud. Fair? If that’s true then he really is named Olivier Richard Pierre Jean-Robèrt Sylvain. And yet Hartbrooke has the nerve to whine about Liv having breathed the same rarified air.
I hope you choke on your drink. He doesn’t say it aloud. He can’t say it aloud. That would take too much breath. I hope I’m there to see the look on your face when you realise the mob at your gates isn’t going to go away just because you say so. It’d be almost as good as being able to land a shot right on that smug, polished beak. Jab, jab, jab, BOOM.
Finally, he stops, grabbing an old, worn piece of cloth from a pile of junk in the corner and using it to wipe the sweat pouring from his brow. He grabs a swig from a bottle of beer; the contents have gone warm before he could get to it, but he grew up on warm beer and stale bread, so what’s new?
“You didn’t really --”
He spins around, a fresh shot of adrenaline giving him a new burst of speed. He stops just short of launching his fist straight into Skrrish’s snout. “Jesus f… How did you find me?” If she can, then… “Don’t tell me you actually talked to people.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them. “I… I didn’t mean it like…I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and wishing he could take back the last five seconds. “No. I didn’t murder anybody. I am a lot of things, but I am not a killer.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. I never believe anything in that other rag, anyway.”
“Government propaganda,” he agrees. “We have always been at war with New Prussia.”
“Um…” she says.
“It’s from a book. War is Peace. Lies are Truth. Rat out your friends and family because your Government is Love.” Liv takes another sip of his beer. “New Brittania just didn’t realise it wasn’t meant as an instruction manual.”
“But New…”
“Oh, New Prussia is worse. I am under no illusions there.”
Skrrish looks relieved. “And no, no one followed me. I will not tell anyone, you have my word.”
Liv hopes she’s right. It’s not just his life depending on it. He takes a deep breath. “Look, I know they’ve got their hooks in, but we’ve still got the classifieds, right?” Silly authorities, thinking they can take the Ledger away from her proper publisher. “Here’s what I need…”
Count me for OFFENSE. As Major Harpbinger always taught us a reform school, a good offense is a good offense. And I’ve always been told I’m a very offensive fellow. Excelsior!
fping!
Oh! It is true, it is true. I did not want to be a buzzzzzzzybody about it, but I am a proud parent node. It is too soon for little Bartlebit to consume motor oil, but he does need zero-and-onesies.
I should also mention that a mere 20 hours remain to plan your season in the Public Ledger.
@gwwar
@nimelennar
@MalevolentPixy
@donald_petersen
@mrmonkey
@nightflyer
Everyone is so clever and nice!
zorp
Dearest cousin, with that printery of yours, would you have time to do a run of these morale posters? I think it will help to get everyone on the proper footing for when war comes to our shores.
Ssskidwish closes the door gently, so as not to wake the slumbering cybernestling and its long-suffering mother. He affectionately (or what he, at least, considers “affectionately” insofar as a cold-blooded Reptiloid is capable in these dark times) tousels the tinsel antennae atop the wee tot’s head as he passes the crib.
He heads to the kitchen to rustle up a midnight snack and a nightcap, only to discover, seated at the breakfast nook, Lady Jane (@penguinchris), holding a few scraps of paper, a somewhat disheveled-looking statuette of a famous cinema star of yesteryear from the more fashionable end of the galaxy… and a more-than-slightly accusing glare.
And just down the block and over a fence and across the park and up the stairs, in another darkened kitchen sits Melisande Copse, cradling young “Moose.” She regards the scaly young thing with sad affection, hoping her adoration will grow with his antlers, but wondering if the life she’s chosen will ever provide the peace and joy and companionship she’s craved since fawnhood.
Off to another strategy session at the palace. Yes, the Ambassador gets fancy quarters and plenty of respect… if only she were ever here to enjoy them.
Why dear cousin @Wisconsin_Platt , of course I a, always here to help. If I run 10,0000 will that be a good start? I assume your apprentices at the trade school can put them up.
Now about that loan I asked you about. I’m telling you my new product is going to change life as we know it here on weatherby and it will be so useful once the war starts. I just need a little more capital to fight off the patent trolls. I’m telling you this will be the best investment you ever made. What do you say?
Eudaemonia and her child swept into the entrance hall at Bedlam’s Bower. As her husband Jasper stepped forward to embrace them both in welcome, he noticed the flush in his wife’s cheeks, and the twinkle in her eyes. It seemed crusading for the common good suited her. As he helped her unbuckle little Euphrosynia’s carrier, he asked, “How was today’s rally?”
“It was wonderful,” she replied happily. “Oh, we had a few hecklers, as usual. Some people just can’t wrap their heads around change, no matter how needed it may be. But many more are listening. It’s a good beginning.”
Jasper took their daughter in his arms, gently caressing the infant’s cheek. Eudaemonia marvelled at the sight. He was so gentle, so dedicated to the young one, that they’d never thought to hire a nanny. “And what does our pretty one think of all the hue and cry?”
“She doesn’t seem to mind it. She just looks around with those wide eyes and takes it all in. I think she’s charming the crowd more than I can.”
“Are you sure bringing her to these events is safe, my love?”
Eudaemonia sobered. “I can’t say I haven’t worried about it. Tensions are so high right now, between the crime wave and the saber-rattling with New Prussia. But… I do want her to witness at least some of the rallies. She’s too little to understand it all now, but as a True Citizen, she’s going to to have a place of privilege in society. I want her to see the duties and responsibilities that go with it. And I think it will remind people that what we do now will shape the future our children will inherit. It’s important.” She paused for a moment. “I will do everything I can to keep her safe. I promise you, if there’s even a hint of danger to her, I’ll leave with her at once.”
“I can’t ask for anything more,” Jasper replied. “Have you heard much more about New Prussia?”
“No. Some of my fellow Citizens are readying various measures to prepare for war, but there are so many efforts, it’s a wonder that anyone could follow them all, let alone choose how to participate.”
At that, her husband laughed. “Well, if anyone can put it all together, it’s you, my lovely.”
Eudaemonia’s eyes went wide. “That’s it. Collate all the information in one place, distribute it, rally the people to contribute wherever they can do the most good-- print up the details in a special edition of my Gazette– hand it out during my speeches–” In her enthusaism, she all but tackles her husband with a sudden hug. “My darling, you are a genius!”
“Not I,” he chuckled. “but perhaps our son will be.”
Eudaemonia looked Jasper in the eyes. “Are you sure? It may not be the best time for another baby. The war-- I’ll probably be summoned to duty in the Hussars soon–”
“There’s never going to be a perfect time, love. I think our Euphrosynia should have a brother fairly close in age. It’ll be better for both of them. There’s just one little thing…”
“What?”
“This time, I choose the name.”
Of course. As the posters are for the war effort, I’ve put forth a request for payment from the Department of Propaganda and Entertainment. The Bureau for Extracting Additional Teamwork If the DoPE BEATs don’t drop though, I’ll happily pay for them myself as it is all good for the war.
As far as an additional load to see you through, I’ll check with the the bank (@messana) if there is any provision for loaning you some funds.
