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Performing arts

Posted on Wed Sep 9th, 2015 @ 5:34am by Commodore Lax Rendo're XVIII

Mission: Trouble on the frontier
Location: Celby IX

A massive crowd had gathered that night to see the new play, "Resistentia populi". It was making it's debut across the entire Celby sector. A two night only affair in most playhouses. The play was billed as the must see spectacle to end all spectacles, more moving than Quarlars Commentaries, a bigger emotional ride than The Vegentan Ode. The there was a palpable electricity in the air waiting to explode, when a well dressed man appeared on stage, likewise, at that same moment in theaters across the system, similarly well dressed men, from the grand opera halls, to the black box theaters, all headed to the stage to stand in front of the audience. Was this part of the show? What were they doing?

"Ladies and Gentlemen" The man started, taking center stage as the spotlight focused on him.

"I have just received information that there is a Federation spy among us—"

Several members of the audience gasp, and started talking, looking left and right, trying to pick out the spy.

"A Federation spy, watching us."

"He is around, here somewhere, reporting upon you and me—sending reports about us to Earth, and telling the Fleeters just what we are doing with the Raider Loan. From every section of the Sector, these spies have been getting reports over to Deep Space Twelve—not general reports but details—where the loan is going well and where its success seems weak, and what people are saying in each community."

The man took off his gloves and folded them in his hand. He spoke in a hushed tone, almost as if to let the audience in on a carefully guarded secret.

"For the Federation is worried about our great loan. Those Fleeters fear its effect upon the Federation morale. They’re raising a loan this month, too.

If the Celby people lend their billions now, one and all with a hip-hip-hurrah, it means that we are united and strong. While, if we lend our money half-heartedly, we seem weak and autocracy remains strong.

Latinum means everything now; it means quicker victory and therefore less bloodshed. We are in the war, and now we can have but one opinion, only one wish in the Raider Loan.

Well, I hope these spies are getting their messages straight, letting Deep Space Twelve know that Celby is hurling back to the autocrats these answers:

For treachery here, attempted treachery in Sector Five Thirty One, treachery everywhere—one billion."

The man stomped his foot on the ground to make the point and held up his finger.

"For murder of Celby women and children—one billion more."

He stomped again, his voice reaching a fever pitch, the audience was leaning on his words, mesmerized by the show.

"For broken faith and promise to murder more Celbians—billions and billions more!"

He dropped his voice low again

"And then we will add:

In the sector fight for Liberty, our share—billions and billions and billions and endless billions!

Do not let the Federation spy hear and report that you"

He pointed to a man in the front row.

"Are a slacker!"

A murmur carried over the auditorium. The thought that the Federation could be here, watching them caused a quite still among the crowd.

The lights dimmed, the play went on. The curtain opened to wreckage, a bombed out street. Bodies lay strewn around. Suddenly, a man in civilian clothing ran across the stage. He turned, looked over his shoulder momentarily and was hit by a bolt of energy. He fell, lifeless to the ground. On stage, five soldiers in power armor, wearing Starfleetesque marine uniforms marched on stage to the sounds of boos from the audience."

"Clean up this rabble, no witnesses, no survivors." A Lieutenant Colonel marched over and fired another round into the man lying on the ground.

Suddenly, from all over the stage swarmed gaggles of civilians. They tacked the Starfleet members and pummeled them with bricks, sticks, pots, pans, anything that they could find. The crazed Colonel starting firing into the civilians, seemingly killing most.

Except for one man, a dashing, handsome man, who stood and stared down the Colonel.

"And who the hell do you think you are?" The Colonel spit on a body and turned towards the man.

"Lax Rendo're, a name in which you will live to regret hearing." Lax produced a sabre and quickly advanced on the Colonel who began firing. Rendo're dodged the incoming rounds and planted a boot square into the chest of the Marine, knocking him to the ground. Lax moved over to the marine, putting the sabre next to the throat.

"And what is your name Fleeter, before I let you bleed out?"

"Bannister, Wolfric Bannister." The marine spit up some blood.

"Well puppy dog, no more dead today, you've done enough of that, I leave you with your life, but send word to your friends, you will never take Gizo Eight."

The play continued for two hours, showing the bitter struggle of the rebel forces against their Federation invaders.

At the end, the stage went black, only showing the actor playing Lax, his face marred by dust and sweat and blood. He looked out at the audience. Letting his sabre and rifle fall down to his sides.

"It isn't too late for them, it isn't to late for you." He paused. "It isn't too late for all of us."

The stage lights went out. After a few moments the house lights came back up as the audience erupted into thunderous applause. The cast appeared back on stage to take their curtain call.


As the patrons exited, many in their finest attire, they couldn't help but stop by the booth for the Rend'ore Raiders, to give their money, their time, their enthusiasms, and in some cases, their ships and crews.


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