LotS/The Story/Politics of War/Bar
Bar
“I like the part where you stomped on his face,” Telemachus says, as he plays the footage of the courtroom brawl for perhaps the dozenth time.
“What made you think it was a good idea to put Ragnar on the stand anyway?” asks Talia.
“An unorthodox strategy, perhaps,” says Lu Bu. “But it turned out well. We were fortunate that the Centurians’ lawyer was so easily provoked. His rampage should have successfully nullified any ill effect from Ragnar’s misbehavior.”
“Where is Ragnar, anyway?” you ask.
The Niflung wandered off shortly after you returned to the embassy, and he didn’t dine with the rest of you.
“Not seen him,” says Talia. “He’s probably off breaking something.”
“Good guess, but no.”
Ragnar comes through the doorway. He pauses for a moment, and looks at the screen Telemachus is watching. He gives a rumbling laugh as he sees himself headbutting Tulk, before turning back to you.
“I got thinking.”
“It’s about time you started,” Talia remarks.
“There are five judges on that panel. That means we just have to win a few of them over, and the trial will go our way.”
“That’s what the Princess is doing,” you reply. “She’s downstairs having a meeting with the Novocastrian ambassador. If she can persuade him, he might be able to influence their judge.”
“Good,” says Ragnar. “But I can do better than that. How would you like to meet Bjorn Bjorsson, the Niflung judge?”
“You know him?” Telemachus asks, pausing the footage and leaving Tulk’s face frozen in a comical distortion as it makes contact with Ragnar’s fist.
“No. But I asked around our embassy. Found out the address of the quiet little place he likes to drink at. He’s meant to be there now.”
“I’m not sure approaching a judge in a tavern would be a wise course of action,” says Lu Bu.
“Trust me,” says Ragnar. “I know the way my people think. And I heard some stories from one of the guards at the embassy. We go to the bar, drink with him a bit, and he’ll be on our side in no time.”
“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you say, remembering the Niflung judge’s suppressed mirth after Ragnar’s book tossing trick.
You get to your feet, and grab your jacket. Then you head off with Ragnar, leaving the others to watch over the Princess – wondering what you’re getting yourself into.
In Vino Socius
“Ah, the book-thrower!” Bjorsson says, as the two of you appear over his table. A broad grin appears across his ursine face. “Here to start another fight?”
“Plenty of time for fighting,” Ragnar replies. “First my friend here’s going to drink you under the table.”
Bjorsson looks you up and down, as though sizing you up, and his grin widens.
“Ha! You think you can out-drink a Niflung?” He looks Ragnar up and down in turn, and gives an approving nod. “Now you, son… You might be a challenge.”
“Wouldn’t be fair.” Ragnar pats his abdomen with a heavy hand. “When they put my cybernetics in, I made sure I’d still be able to get drunk. But I could drink every drop in this entire bar and still be able to walk home.”
“Well,” Bjorsson says, turning back to you, “let’s see what you’re made of.”
You sit down opposite him, wondering again what you’re getting yourself into. But Ragnar promised you that you won’t actually have to out-drink the Niflung. In their culture it’s apparently the thought that counts in such things. You just need to hold your own, and take advantage of your mutual drunkenness to present your case.
"Glass" as a Verb
Bjorsson’s bellowing laugh echoes around the bar.
“Then what did you do?” he asks.
“Shot him again!” you reply.
This time all three of you laugh, with the collective hilarity that only alcohol can bring.
Empty vessels in all manner of shapes and sizes litter the table. There are even wine glasses, though you’re sure none of you has been drinking wine. And when did that glowing one get there?
After a few more drinks, Bjorsson is telling you about how he’s always been suspicious of the “Centies”. You look to Ragnar, and read victory in his ferocious grin. He was right. This was a great plan…
“Well, look what we have here!”
It’s only when you follow Bjorsson and Ragnar’s gazes that you realize the words were directed at you. You turn around, the intervening distance flashing past in a blur, and see a man wearing a Centurian uniform of some kind. And unless you’re far drunker than you thought you were, there are more behind him.
“They let Sian scum drink in this place?” he asks, as though to the world at large.
You stagger to your feet, bumping into your chair and sending it crashing down behind you. Scotch splashes against the glass walls of the vessel in your hand, but manages to stay put.
“Enjoying a last drink before you and your whore Princess end up in jail?”
You grope around for a cutting insult, something to shut him up and put him in his place. But nothing emerges from the foggy depths of your mind. Instead you’ll have to use what’s to hand…
Barroom Brawl
The Centurian falls to the floor screaming, his hands clutching his ruined face.
But you only have a second to enjoy your handiwork, and lament the loss of your beverage. Then the other Centurians run towards you, and all hell breaks loose.
You have time to see Ragnar grab one of the Centurians, lift him above his head, and bring him down spine-first across his knee. There’s an amusing snap as his vertebrae pop. Then a fist crashes into the side of your head, and you decide to focus on your own portion of the fight.
Glass Cannon
“Come on then!” you yell, feeling like the hero of an ancient epic as you stand above the groaning forms of your defeated foes.
You look around for another opponent, your body coursing with adrenaline that demands its conversions into acts of violence.
Ragnar has two Centurians by their necks, and is bashing their heads together again and again as if they were a pair of cymbals. Hilarious, but no use to you. There has to be one left… Ah!
You almost cheer as you see one of the Centurians get to his feet, not yet beaten beyond the reach of consciousness.
“Come on!” you repeat, gesturing for him to fight.
He gives you one terrified look, however, and runs away. You take a step after him, but the world’s very blurry right now, and it occurs to you that you’ll never run him down. Instead you grab a glass from a nearby table, and take aim.
Robotic Rautha
The tumbler shatters against the back of the Centurian’s head just as he passes through the bar’s door, and even you can’t quite believe you made the throw. He topples into the street, and the door swings shut behind him.
“Looks like we’ve run out of Centurians,” Ragnar grunts.
“Should go to Alpha Centauri,” you mutter. “Just go there right now and beat the crap out of all of them.”
“Heh. Yeah.”
You’re still expounding on your desire to brutalize the Centurians in their home system when the door to the bar opens once more, revealing a figure adorned with bright red lights.
“You! They said you were here!” comes a familiar voice that you can’t seem to place.
There’s a whirring and clanking noise as the figure comes towards you, its blurry outline sharpening to reveal a robotic body with a jar where its head should be. It takes you a few moments to recognize the face swimming in the colored liquids and gasses beyond the glass.
“Time for payback!” he says, grinding his metal knuckles against his equally metal palm.
“Didn’t we kill this one?” you ask, turning to Ragnar.
“He must have got better,” the Niflung replies with a shrug.
You look back at your enemy, who seems rather perturbed at being spoken of in such a way, relegated to the third person.
“Better kill him again,” you muse.
“Bashed him good,” you say, gazing down at the wrecked metal body. You sway slightly, as though you’re looking over the edge of a cliff instead of at the floor.
You feel a pillar support your weight, and realize that it’s Ragnar.
“That was a damn good fight!” says Bjorrson.
You look over, and see that he’s still sitting at his table, a fresh drink in his hand.
“But I think you’d better get this one home,” he continues.
“Sure,” says Ragnar, half-leading, half-carrying you towards the door.
“See you in court!” you shout back over your shoulder.