LotS/The Story/Tales of The Void 2/Ragnar Teaches a Lesson
The holo-screens formed a grid, sixteen smaller squares creating a greater whole. It dominated the middle of the Tyraness' relaxation room from floor to ceiling, wall to wall, dividing the chamber in half. It split a couch in two, along with the guard who stood against the opposite wall -- though if this almost symmetrical vivisection troubled the woman, she gave no sign. The rest of the guardswomen were likewise impassive. However, their mistress bore a dark scowl. Her fingertips grasped the arms of the plush chair on which she sat, sinking into the padded crimson. The balls of her feet pressed down on the footstool and ground against the luxurious cushion. They twisted back and forth as though crushing insects.
This sudden movement made the servant boy fumble in his efforts to paint her nails. A little dab of purple appeared on the skin of her big toe. She looked down, glared at it, and kicked him in the face. He fell backwards, clutching his bloody mouth. A guard lifted him up by his tunic with one hand and bore him away.
"How dare they?" the Tyraness said.
The guardswomen made no reply. The remaining servants crawled away on their bellies, lest she notice them. But her eyes were back on the sixteen screens and the chaotic images they held.
"Protests? On my planet!?!"
Teeming crowds occupied each scene. In parks and plazas, streets and fields, they waved placards and cried out from silent mouths. Only a single screen emitted sound. From that one, the rhythmic chant was thus:
"The ice-cream laws are dumb!
We want our bubblegum!
The ice-cream laws are dumb!
We want our bubblegum!"
"Bubblegum! They're protesting over... bubblegum ice-cream?" the Tyraness said. She pointed at one of the guards. "You! I demand to know what this all means!"
The armored woman glanced at the door, then at the balcony, but perhaps decided that neither fleeing for her life nor plunging to her death seemed palatable.
"It's... It's a symbol, Tyraness. The... The wretched... ungrateful... insignificant... worthless..."
Her mistress' hand described a curt, circular motion.
"...fools are too... too stupid to appreciate your just and benevolent edicts! They've chosen to use bubblegum as a microcosm of-"
"Send for General Culthana!"
"Yes, Tyraness!"
Zhao Chen lay on his uncomfortable bed and contemplated the ceiling. He'd taken up residence in several cells during his life, but none had contained anything like the lavish fresco spread above. It depicted the Tyraness' face. She glowered at him in lifelike wrath. A mischievous part of his mind wondered if prisoners were suitably cowed by the image, or else pleasured themselves to it.
He was lost in such frivolous thoughts when the door opened and a pair of amazonian women entered. One of them aimed a blaster at Chen. The other held out a pair of electric manacles.
"The Tyraness wants to see you," the latter said.
"Then who am I to disobey?
The ruler must have her way."
"Just shut up and come here."
She slapped the cuffs on his wrists. There was a low hum, and blue bands of energy filled the transparent bonds -- tightening them against his skin. The guard took him by the collar and propelled him out into the corridor. Something jabbed him in the back, which he took for the blaster's muzzle. It remained there while they directed him through the palace's passages and up its stairways.
After some minutes they brought him to a long, broad corridor decorated with framed paintings of the Tyraness. On one she wore a gorgeous ball gown and held a handsome young man's arm. In the next he was dead on the ground, with her boot planted on his head. Her giggling smile was the same in both paintings. Chen was glancing at a third -- this one a battle scene in which the ruler routed a unit of teddy bears -- when his guards came to a halt, each stamped a foot, and chorused:
"Hail, General Culthana!"
The woman who stormed down the corridor towards them was even taller than the two warrior women. Her broad face, with its glaring eyes and pursed lips, was at least eighteen inches above Chen's own, and her shoulders were broad enough to make a Niflung bodybuilder weep. Thick golden plates inscribed with intricate floral patterns made her imposing build even more substantial.
The two guards parted to clear her path. Chen did not. Culthana's right arm barged into him, knocking him spinning. He thudded between two of the paintings and moaned.
"That wasn't a pleasant thing to do!
The passage is wide enough for two!"
The general froze. Her eyes blazed. The two guards exchanged glances and backed away, while Culthana seized Chen's throat in her golden grasp. She hoisted him off his feet, squeezing his red, spluttering throat. His back crashed against the wall for a second time. She pinned him there, boots thrashing above the floor. His bound hands slapped at her vambrace.
She leaned in close, until their noses were almost touching, then directed a ferocious expression at the guards. They took the hint and turned around. Behind them the general growled inaudible, savage threats, punctuated by thuds and groans. A few moments later she strode past them. They looked round to find Zhao Chen on his hands and knees. Blood dripped from his face.
"Idiot!" one of them said.
With that charitable assessment, they pulled Chen to his feet and prodded him into the chamber at the end of the corridor. One of them helped him across the Tyraness' relaxation room with a kick. He stumbled through the holo-screens, parting the protestors, then recovered and bowed before the reclining ruler. She blinked at his battered visage.
"What happened to your face?"
"An accident, nothing more,
I had a fight with a door."
"Well that was silly of you, wasn't it?" She snorted and pointed at the screens behind him. "I want to hear a poem! Something fun, to take my mind off those stupid people."
Chen bowed, coughed, and began.
The bar was a den of savages
when Ragnar walked into the place
everybody stopped talking
and stared at the Niflung's face
"He's the one who slaughtered Eric!"
said a chem-addled punk
"Oh, shut your goddamn mouth!" said Ragnar
"I just came here to get drunk!"
But all the punks went for their weapons
so Ragnar let out a roar
and seized a powerful Niflung axe
soon to be bathed in gore
He cut a Rylattu in half
when she drew her doomsday gun
threw her corpse in the bathroom
pissed on it for fun
A Snuuth wrestler went and grabbed his arm
to take away his axe
but Ragnar tore his head off
and paid the grim reaper's tax
He rampaged through the tables
chopping off arms and legs
before he drank all of their beer
right down to the dregs
"I think I should be leaving!"
said one who wanted to live
"Hold it right there!" said Ragnar
"There's lots more brutal killing to give!"
The barmaid looked over the counter
and let out her most boisterous cry
"If you battle that Niflung
you're all going to die!"
Of course it was really too late
for that splendid advice
all of the punks were dead
a few maybe twice or thrice
Ragnar looked round at the slaughter
then went to slake his thirst
"I love ale but it's even better
if you've done lots of good killing first!"
The Tyraness clapped her hands.
"Very clever! You've played with another of my favorite poems. When I heard it at school, I loved it so much I made one of the teachers act it out!" Her eyes brightened. "Ah! Look!"
On the sixteen screens, amazonian soldiers were pitching into the crowds. Some laid about them with truncheons. Others battered away with plated fists and feet. The Tyraness' subjects fled in all directions, their protest at an end.
She laughed until merry tears glistened in her eyes.