Alistair Raven and the Stormtrooper in Stilettos (Book 1)

Part 3 - Chatter 8

Accused on more than one occasion of being a vacuous façade, Alice Mould loathed Christmas. A zero tolerance zone, she found socialising insufferable and detested the boorish, festively plump Ministers with their jowls in the trough. She had sinister thoughts, concealed behind her passive, steely face. A cold, joyless person who found solace in her own bubbling spite, if Alice Mould couldn't wake up hating something, she hated waking up.

Still smarting by the Chancellor's reluctance to take her fears of a bubbling undercurrent of revolution seriously, she had given him the perfect opportunity to destroy the Crown before an audience of millions and crush any notion of uprising, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Alice had been to the coal-face, beaten the bejesus out of turncoats, yet with all their Futurist might, they still hadn't silenced the insurgent's whispers of loyalty as they bled on her hands.

Standing alone in the shadows, she prickled. The Government Box was full; Ministers, family and the elite. They quaffed fine wine and champagne and gorged on delicacies from across Neuropa, especially flown in for this evening's function. Alice wanted no part of it; she nourished herself with what only could be described as TraitCrime thoughts, reconciling that soon these imbeciles would be gone. The delicious irony of possessing the crown was she could garner support from the right string-pulling party faithful and seize control in her own right, betraying the Chancellor and his gormless regime. True fear and obedience would return; New Britain recast in steel.

Alice watched the ubiquitous Robert Thompson pour an expensive German beer down his throat. She suspected the archaeologist did not have the stomach to be a true patriot. Of course Alice had suitably ridiculed Robert for acting out of character and lowering his defences when it had come to Alistair Raven. Yet Robert still served a purpose, a purpose that would soon be concluding if the pieces fell in to place. He had sworn allegiance to her like a simpering coward and eventually sacrificing him would cause her no additional guilt. Reflecting on this, she peered through the two way glass out in to the Pleasuredome; pressing the cold metal of her blades against the flesh of her wrists which gave her a tremor of excitement.

The plebs outside roared. Turning up her nose, she saw the fool Chancellor Malachy arriving. As always, he hammed it up for the blotto supporters he built his regime upon. One day, they'd wake up and when Malachy's silky tongue spun no more, it would be him swinging from the gallows upon the stage. As he blew kisses and threw poses and high-fived the throng, Malachy's closest bodyguards disliked his lackadaisical attitude, ushering him towards the Box.

"Sycophants," Robert said under his breath.

"TraitCrime is HateCrime my dear Robert," Alice reminded hypocritically, instantly silencing Robert, before she teased him further. "I am very sure the Chancellor and pay-per-view audiences have plenty of room for one more stretched neck."

Robert kept any further musings to himself.

"I need another drink," he responded, finding a waiter with a silver tray carrying beverages.

The Box doors swung open and Chancellor Malachy swanned in to be greeted by his fawning faithful with much hand wringing and false pleasantries being bandied about. Finally, Chancellor Malachy, with the party back in full swing, gripped a flagon of ale and sauntered his way to where Alice stood. Alice did not shift her gaze or acknowledge his presence as Malachy cheekily pinched her on the bottom.

"Merry Christmas Mouldy," Malachy slurred; Alice endured, stony silent.

"It's a lovely night for an execution," she said, and Chancellor Malachy almost missed the intended irony.

"Lighten up Mouldy," Malachy perkily chided. "No need to always be the party pooper. For goodness sake, what happened to you as a child to make you like this?"

Alice turned to face him and leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"Shall I remind you that me being a party pooper keeps you alive."

Chancellor Malachy swigged from his flagon; gritting his politician's teeth.

"You weren't saying that last night," Chancellor Malachy responded.

"Really? Is that Lady Malachy I spy over there? Shall I let her know the real reason why you were late home for supper?"

Malachy shot her a dirty look.

"Might I remind you who here is the Chancellor?" he growled behind his flagon, hiding his lips then sipping his beer.

"And might I remind you, who, in this relationship, has the real power?"

"Being powerful is like being a lady, if you have to tell people you are, you aren't," Malachy snorted.

"Isn't it you who is always sprouting that quality is measured by the cost of non-conformance?" Alice segued. "Perhaps you should take a look in the mirror and eradicate the zero defect in the reflection."

"I'll have your defective attitude readjusted," Malachy responded sourly. "Then you'll pay me some respect!"

Alice brushed Malachy aside. He grabbed her wrist; he didn't need a scene.

"You know Chancellor, all that cutting edge you like to prattle on about? One day, it will be passé, and then it will be you on the cutting edge," Alice threatened with a subtle running of her finger across his throat.

"I wear thin with your attitude Mouldy," Malachy grimaced impatiently. "All your talk of Loyalist fables and vengeful revolutionaries – anyone would think it was you whipping up unrest. Even if anyone cared, there are not enough supports to cause a ripple in a cup of tea. Rest assured, I'm going to keep a very close eye on you Mouldy."

"If you ever touch me again," Alice seethed, resenting his veiled threat. "I shan't be so forgiving."

"I have your death sentence in my breast pocket, yeah," Malachy intimidated, with a slimy smirk. "It would be a perfect shame to waste such an obvious talent and true believer."

Alice slapped a book against Malachy's chest.

"Recognise this?" Alice demanded. Malachy rolled his eyes and took the book and flipped it open, recognising his own red crayon annotations.

"Have you been rifling through my drawers while I've been rifling through yours?" Malachey demanded to know.

"There's a sniff of revolution in the air," Alice warned. "Regime change might be in order, privileges could be revoked. Lucky for you I remain your humble servant."

"Don't blackmail me," Malachy snarled snatching her wrist and tightening his grip. "You're not indispensible. I could find another dozen boot lickers just like you. Perhaps with a little less attitude."

"Go to hell," Alice said quietly, and whipped free, making good for the exit. With less extravagant tastes than her Government colleagues, she grabbed her standard issue coat from the cloak room and headed out in to the 'Dome to escape the claustrophobia of her inferiors.

Robert stuffed another canapé into his gob and having watched Alice storm off after her tête-à-tête with Malachy, he was curious. He saw Malachy pocket the book, then a dash of paranoia struck Robert and he lost his appetite. Edging to the cloakroom, he collected his own jacket and followed after Alice.