King Moron

by R. Neube

Illustrated by Darryl Elliott

King Richard IV sat in his favorite spot, the navigation bubble. Occasionally, a sensory array or telescope would swing, forcing him to squeeze into another corner. He took care never to get in the way of the machinery, lest a member of his crew rag him for being stupid.

The king watched the gleaming point of light that was Earth. The speck tugged at him. Folks said that World War III had left the planet so radioactive that your eyes would get tumors should you stare at it too long, even from Mars orbit. He was certain that that was bullshit, but he wore shades, just in case.

They had treated monarchs differently when they had ruled on Earth. With awe, to judge from the old movies he loved to watch. The king was glad he hadn’t lived back then. It was exhausting enough to be a figurehead aboard the Windsor. The thought of signing his name all day and starting wars and sending his enemies to the Tower terrified him.

His watch beeped five times. The signal chivvied him to the captain’s private study.

“Your Highness.” Captain Jones seized his useless arm to tow him toward a tall, grey passenger. The captain bowed as she said, “May I introduce Senator Skiepe, chairman of the Martian External Committee.”

King Richard shook hands with his good hand, as bile flavored his mouth. The king remembered this politico from the old days. While Richard was living on the streets and in the parks of Mars, the senator had dispatched vigilantes to lecture the homeless with clubs and firebombs.

As king of the luxury liner Windsor, Richard IV could theoretically command Captain Jones to airlock the yerp. She might do it. More probably, he would be forced to endure daily sessions with Doctor Li again.

The senator and king exchanged pleasant babble for a few minutes. Richard felt confident that he could handle the social aspect. Each day he spent forty-five minutes with Ensign Madcar Pradesh, practicing such graces. Madcar could charm the venom from a cobra.

“I’m surprised. I thought ya’d be spouting Limey like yer Cap’n. Ya talk like a regular guy.”

“I spent thirty-one of my forty years on Mars,” replied the king.

“That’s what I read. Not that our records are clear about the details.”

“Ya… The king chewed his tongue for a moment. “You know it. It’s not easy being Martian at heart and a king by birth.” He swallowed that “fersure” that still tried to erupt at the end of each sentence.

“Is it true ya were raised in the Eternal Light?”

Captain Jones fired up an alien smoke, uncomfortable with the senator’s directness. She hovered protectively, ready to insert herself between the duo.

“My father was a member of the Light. I was fourteen before I escaped the cult. I hiked three hundred klicks overland to Asheville.”

The king reined his memory in before he actually recalled those wasted years of praying and having the sin beat out of him. The long march was an equally sour memory. His two best friends had died of exposure in the Martian outback.

“The rumors of child abuse and ritual sacrifice have been documented by our undercover agents. We’ll be neutrahzing the cult soon. As a leader, ya must realize how divisive religion can be. When we destroy the Eternal Light, it would be helpful if their most famous victim issued a statement to confirm how evil the bastards are.”

“I see.” Sweat cascaded down the royal back. Vid cameras terrified him.

Captain Jones fingercombed her crimson hair. “His Majesty’s time is at a premium. Why should he publicly relive an extremely painful episode of his life?”

The king sat, willing himself to shrink. Maybe then they wouldn’t notice him. He was generally ignored whenever people got down to business.

“Mars would be willing to acknowledge him as King of the Britons.”

“The Martian Anarchy will support the restoration of a monarchy?” Jones laughed.

“New Turin and Caesar poleis have already pulled out of the EuroUnion. The five French poleis are ignoring the Union’s legislation. In a few years, it will be each orbital city for itself. It only stands to reason that New London or one of the other Limey poleis will seek a non-political leader. My colleagues appreciate the value of a Brit king with Martian sensibilities.”

“Quid pro toe,” said the king, laughing when the other laughed, though it cramped his stomach. Didn’t he say it right? The phrase joined so many others in the “do not repeat” category.

“I assume you have a draft of the statement you’d like His Majesty to make.” The captain palmed the memory crystal with the celerity of a dope dealer. “The Privy Council will have to review the text. If it passes muster, we shall have the tape ready before the Windsor arrives at L-5.”

The king scratched his nose as a prelude to escaping the senator. The captain scratched her nose, acknowledging his signal. She made an excuse for him, one of her many responsibilities. After another round of handshaking, the king fled.

In a blue corridor, he encountered a group of tourists from Deimos who were hopelessly lost. Some bowed. Some saluted. Everyone bubbled and babbled. Cameras snapped like machine guns.

The king was the reason the Windsor booked each of its 180 suites—regardless of the economy—at thrice the going rate. The Parliament had booted the monarchy in the twenty-first century, but it still couldn’t touch the cachet of royalty. People paid big for encounters such as these.

It was child’s play matching the tourists’ color-coded ID’s with directions to their suites. Offering his good arm to a matron, he guided them most of the way.

The king entered his suite. He double-locked his hatch before sitting in front of a computer. A timid finger pressed ENTER. The machine’s wallpaper reproduced a graphic from a Lunar news program. KING MORON! read the headline beneath the unflattering photo. It’d been one of several media debacles that had taught him to keep his mouth shut. He had ordered the image installed in the computer as a reminder.

It wasn’t as if he were really a moron, though learning had never been easy for him. Kidnapped from his mother at the age of two, he had spent twelve years with the Eternal Light. Other than the Testimony of Brother Jim and the Oregon Reformed Bible being read to them morning, noon, and night, there had been no education. Knowledge, the cult espoused, was evil. After escaping the Light, Richard had been too busy surviving on the streets to educate himself.

He banged the keys with a single finger, following the cue card the brigadier had drawn for him. The screen flickered. Awkward fingers attached a throat mike and headset. A picture formed slowly, playfully. Below it, letters formed, burning red to green to yellow. He tried to sound out the word, but only articulated noises. When the picture finished forming, he blurted, “Horse!”

At this rate, King Richard IV would master reading in a scant nine years.

His pen rasped across a pad, copying the letters. He cursed the loss of his left arm’s usefulness. Nature hated reprogramming a southpaw. The computer estimated it would be another eight years before he’d possess legible handwriting.

At least he had his name down pat.

A lesser man would have given up. However, lesser men weren’t kings of a luxury liner, once of England, once of Wales, once of Scotland, once of the world.

Of course, kings occasionally cried.

The primary responsibility of the king was lunch. No one expected a Royal to be awake for breakfast. Dinner was held in the Royal supping cabin, where four of the richest or most famous passengers would join him. However, lunch was the great equalizer. Every passenger gathered for lunch beneath the floating, effulgent balls of light generated by an Irlane machine.

The king circulated, table to table. Hands shook, brows and cheeks were kissed. He answered a few questions, if they were easy. He basked in their good will. He deployed his tricks as warranted—a panhandler’s breeze, Madcar’s charm, the personal nuggets gleaned by Brigadier Wil-fort-Smythe. He seldom forgot a grandchild’s name, or for whom a passenger worked.

The king never ate lunch; his nervous stomach rebelled against solid food in public. He drank an ocean of hot tea, though he hated its taste. The passengers expected it, and a long sip could buy him time to match one of the brigadier’s stock answers to a perplexing question.

Brigadier Wilfort-Smythe had all the answers.

Once, when he was tired and pouty, he’d blown off the brigadier during one of her eternal briefings. She’d casually pulled a knife and rammed it through her forearm. “You are My King,” she said, face as solid as a glacier. “I swore to your mother, My Queen, that I would find and protect you.” She yanked the bloody knife out of her arm and waved it in front of his prominent nose. “I will drive this steel into my eye before I see Our Monarchy humiliated because My King is too lazy to fulfill his obligation to the throne!”

He believed her. The brigadier was the last Royal Commando.

King Richard IV stopped cold at Table 31. Ray-man wore an Esobar suit, but the aura of the streets still clung to him. When his broken-yolk eyes of blue met the king’s greys, they twinkled. He hoisted his glass to the king.

“I wan ya to know how hopping it is to be breaking bread with the likes of ya.” Ray-man winked. His palsied hand trembled Chablis onto the deck.

King Richard nodded, recalling how Ray-man had towed him out of Dugan Park seconds before vigilantes swept into the Hooverville of plastic crates and “vanished” everyone they caught. He owed the elderly man his life.

The king extended his hand for a long shake. “Nice to meet you—”

“Citizen Summe, Yer Highness. I hope we can talk later about yer charity work. I’ve seen yer Homeless Hotel in Stanton. That’s work ya can be proud of, fersure.”

“I am proud.”

The king turned abruptly to a couple who reeked of ancient money. A hand shook, a hand kissed. They asked if Trudi Ambersian would be the next queen. He shook his head mournfully and whispered about the actress’s drug habit. Enough said. Junkies couldn’t wear the crown, as Elizabeth III had proven. A trio of fashionable young wendies nearly caressed his hand off while they stuffed notes into his pocket.

Before going to the next table, the king detoured to a waiter’s island to fetch a glass of juice. The Navigator caught the signal and alerted the Maitre d’, who drew his stun gun. Richard then realized that the apple juice was the wrong signal and dashed over to the D’ to cancel the alert.

“The bald rake with palsy,” he whispered. “Says his name is Summe, but it’s not. How the devil does a streeter get the long green for our ride?”

“Streeter?” asked the D’, pretending that the stun gun was a whisk and brushing the royal jacket with it.

“A homeless person. Tell the brigadier to investigate him.”

He went to Table 32. “My pardons. The apple juice was from concentrate. I will not tolerate second-rate products for my guests on the Windsor! In these desperate times, it is imperative that we maintain our standards!”

Fill in the blank and it worked as flawless gaffe cover.

He was glad there were but forty-four tables to go.

“Your mother and her dearest friend shared a dorm room at Kramden University, your father, often the same plate at dinner. I shot her right where you’re sitting after she stabbed My Queen. Old friends can be deadly!”

The brigadier twisted her short, raven braid. In her simple cotton shift and sock-shoes, she looked more like a school girl than a thirty-eight-year-old commando.

Rumor had it that the brigadier was the illegitimate daughter of the king’s maternal grandfather. She had grown up on the ship, leaving to attend the Trade Commission Academy and to serve a five-year tour with the Dyb’ as a grunt. Embittered by the aliens’ wars, she came home wealthy, bemedaled, and moderately famous. The brigadier could have shpped into a hundred careers; instead, she became the last Royal Commando.

“I inspected his suite. No weapons. I called Deimos. Your friend has served time for being a persistent unemployable. No violence. No links to rads or Euros or any crim outfit.”

“He’s not a frigging assassin. He carried me to the hospital when—” The king flapped his useless arm.

Odd, he thought, that the memory didn’t gnaw him. He’d taken down two of the thugs before they overwhelmed him. Even while they stretched his arm over a railing and clubbed it to a pulp, he rejoiced that he had dropped two of them. By contrast, the four other times the gang had robbed him constantly appeared in his nightmares. Then, he’d behaved like a victim and forked over whatever they wanted.

“My King, that Hapsburg was virtually a sister to your mother. You no longer have the luxury of accepting old friends at face value.”

“Bring me Ray-man. You don’t have to make faces. Trust no one. I promise to stay out of your line of fire.”

She tapped the Monet behind which hid a security room. Positioning a chair just so, she studied the angle as her thumbnail clacked against her teeth. “He should sit here.”

“Yes, My Brigadier.” She disappeared into the security room.

The king picked up the phone; it was gold, with huge buttons. It was his mother’s, as were most of the furnishings. Like museum artifacts, he’d kept them to remind him of someone he’d never known. The kitchen immediately answered.

“May I have two of your stalest doughnuts and two glasses of powdered milk. Yes, powdered. Yes, stale. Yes, I’m pulling a royal prank. Thank you.”

The dumbwaiter beeped. King Richard removed the tray and closed the heavy sliding door. It continued beeping until he double-latched it. No sense having an armored suite only to have a shaft door come loose in an emergency.

Using a remote, he clicked the TV to the channel monitoring the airlock that served as his front door. Ray-man sat on the deck, scratching his bald, liver-spotted head. It was the same indolent posture the king had seen him assume in the Stanton jail. He pressed a button to open the hatch.

Ray-man sauntered into the room, unimpressed by the surroundings. He waved casually, as if they were bumping into each other in Dugan Park. The streeter in silk slumped into the chair pointed to by the king. He picked up the milk and doughnut.

“Like old times, eh boyo? ’Cept the milk ain’t watery enough.”

“Who paid for your ride? The clothes? Did you win the lottery, Ray-man?” He concentrated on keeping the haunting drawl from his speech.

“Down to biz from the get-go, eh. Ya haven’t changed, Ricky. Okay, I can play that game. There was a riot on Kerrigan Polis coupla years back. A mob broke into the Grainer ship 980 and butchered over 7000 of them.” Ray wiped his nose on a silk sleeve.

“And?” The king shifted in his chair.

“The security detail was pulled off the docks just before the riot. The rioters were armed from the polis’ arsenal. The mob numbered hundreds, yet only five scapegoats are being put on trial.”

“So?” The king sipped his milk. The taste opened his mouth’s eye to the mission where he and the legion of streeters in the Dugan Park district breakfasted.

“The Kerrigan Council masterminded the attack. Yet nobody cares because the victims were Grainers! They’re packed like sardines in those grain transports, shuttling from polis to polis to collect their charity. Only reason the navies don’t blow ’em all to hell is the Trade Commission. Only reason the TC cares is that our alien buddies expect humanity to be civilized and care for the unfortunate.”

The king nodded while his stomach cramped.

“Those Grainers are the Earthers nobody wanted—the peasants, the unschooled, the criminals, the loonies, and the stupid. They are more homeless than we ever were in our park.”

The mere word “Grainer” made the king uncomfortable. The alien Dyb’ had stripped a fleet of grain transports of their star drives before giving them to humanity as temporary shelters for the tsunami of refugees pouring from Earth in the wake of World War III. Two decades later, most of the refugees still lived aboard those ships. Many carried twenty-five thousand in hulls no larger than his own Windsor.

Like many, the monarch preferred to think of them as Gypsies; their nomadic lifestyle their choice. Just as the pedestrians in Stanton had preferred to think of him as a junkie in order to dismiss their guilt as they passed him on a corner panhandling.

“Still a daydreamer, eh, Ricky? When the vigilantes came a-swooping through our park, who came to save us?”

The king shrugged. A tear dangled from the corner of his eye. Blood stains had been the only evidence left in the park. A lot of his friends vanished that night. As he would have, save for this canny old man.

“Nobody was brought to justiceRay-man spat on a Bokhara rug, “for those murders! Just as none of the leaders of the Kerrigan massacre will be punished, because no one cares! If ya’d been king then, at the park, what would ya have done?”

King Richard the Moron sighed for the dead. What would he have done?

“Nobody cares about seven thousand Grainers. Maybe nobody will ever care. What would ya have done for them, Ricky?”

“If I was a real king, I guess I would muster an army and fly to L-5 and bring them a little justice. No-bless-ooo-bilge.” He didn’t know what the phrase meant, but he knew it was an important quality for a monarch.

“But ya are flying to L-5. Maybe ya don’t need an army. A little brain power could turn the trick.”

“How? I’m a frigging joke. I can’t do anything! I’m scared shitless that any minute I’ll end up on the news again.” He walked over to the ’puter and banged up the King Moron wallpaper. “I’ll talk to the Fisc. We can contribute some money to the 980.”

“Ya can do better than that.”

“How come the Grainers call their ships by numbers instead of names?” asked the king. His pulse exceeded Mach One.

“It ain’t gonna help to distract me, boyo. They don’t name ’em because that’s admitting those sardine cans are their homes forever. Numbers keep ’em temporary.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t done enough for our people.”

“Bag that guff, Ricky. There’s nothing ya can do for us. Ya can do something for those Grainers.”

The king leaned against the wall and stared at his shoes. His memory churned images of the vigilantes “cleansing” Dugan Park. The screams echoed through his imagination. Two decades, and the government of Mars still protected those murderers. The homeless had no king to protect them.

Seven thousand dead. Grainers did not have kings either. Nobody cared about the homeless, wherever they endured their lives of casual misery.

“What should I do?” asked the king.

The wizened sage of the streets told him.

After Ray-man departed, King Richard IV realized that the old man had never told him who had financed his journey. Another simple task blown.

The Monet swung away from the wall. The brigadier emerged. Her rifle cracked against her elbow. She cursed and flexed her limbs.

He wiped tears of frustration away as he turned to face the portrait of his mother, Queen Guinevere. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth pruned. However, it was her eyes of watery grey, of watery fear that spoke to him. If naught else, they shared those eyes. Guinevere the Damned, the media called her. She had had her son stolen and her parents, aunts, and brother murdered during the fad of royal assassinations. She had been murdered by her best friend over a love triangle.

Nonetheless, being the Damned was better than being the Moron.

“Why didn’t she have other children after I was stolen? Better children?” The king spoke quietly, not truly wanting to know.

“She tried, but there was a virus. Your father’s hygiene was never… acceptable. I carried a couple of her fertilized eggs, but they didn’t take. My King, you’re the best we’ve got.”

He shrugged again. “What do you think of Ray-man’s scam? Would it work?” The portrait of Guinevere the Damned appeared to wink. He peered closely, but it was only a trick of his tears.

“It won’t work.” She marched across the suite with a crisp step. The brigadier hesitated in front of the hatch. “I don’t think it will work.” The hatch hissed open. When it stuck, she kicked it. “I’ll look into it.”

“So where is the camera?” The king held the glove up to the light. It weighed next to nothing. The shuttle vibrated for a moment.

“Don’t worry about it. I borrowed it from a friend in TC Intell. It’s the latest Irlane tech.” Brigadier Wilfort-Smythe tugged it out of his grip and forced it over his gnarled hand. She slipped a signet ring over the slick material, fussing with his sash and its extra loop that cradled his maimed arm.

Richard the Moron checked his thinning white hair. It’d been white ever since Stanton Public Health sprayed Dugan Park with insecticide to kill collard beetles. Most of the streeters had suffered ephemeral white hair (overlooking the future tumors), but the chems had reacted permanently with him.

The luck of a Royal.

Captain Jones banged her head on a duct as she ducked into the cabin. “There’s something wrong with the shuttle. The Grav has a nasty fluctuation. No sense taking chances, I’ll dock with the jets. As soon as we get back to Taylor, I’ll take bids for an overhaul.”

The brigadier clicked her teeth with a thumbnail. “We should wait until we return to Deimos. If there are any repercussions, I’d hate to leave our only shuttle dry-docked.”

“Why is it a dry dock? Do they use water or ice in other docks?” He snapped his mouth shut when he noticed how they were looking at him.

“There’s a yacht dogging us,” said the captain. “It doesn’t show on radar. I’ve picked it up a couple of times on visual, but it dropped back.”

“My yacht is in the shop,” declared Madcar with a laugh.

The brigadier chewed her lower lip as Madcar sprayed another layer of explosives over her torso. As she waved a hair-drier over it, the deft makeup brush of the ensign blended the edges with her skin tone.

“We are being pushed like a pawn,” observed Madcar. “The yacht belongs to the same hand playing the beggar Summe.”

“Did the beggar leave the Windsor after we docked with Taylor?”

“No, Summe hasn’t left his suite.” The captain brushed lint from the royal sideburn. “He placed a call to one of the Lunar Habitats—I forget which one. He asked directory assistance for a Beatrice Charmine, but there was no listing.”

“Ouch! Be careful, Madcar!”

“You must stand still, please.” The ensign pierced the explosive surrounding her belly button and inserted a small diamond stud. “Try not to bump into anything. This detonator is extremely sensitive.”

“I’m not an idiot,” snapped Brigadier Bomb. “Well, who is this Charmine?”

“BellLunar crashed ninety seconds after the call. Who the devil would do something like that?” asked the captain.

“It must have been a nested program triggered by the query. Crashing the moon’s communications network will be news across the solar system, a signal for someone like that yacht behind us. Forget Summe. He’s obviously expendable as far as the brains behind this are concerned. Forget the yacht. We’ll deal with them later. Forget everything but the mission at hand.”

King Richard fingercombed his hair. “Don’t know much about chess, but if a pawn makes it to the other side of the board, it becomes a king.”

“This is not a game! What do you have to remember, Your Majesty?”

“I twist the ring to start recording. It has only seven minutes of memory, so I wait until we begin talking dirt.” The king had spent the entire night rehearsing his role. It showed in the bags under his grey eyes.

“What else?”

His brow furrowed. “If you yell, I have six seconds to get on the floor, under furniture if I can. After you blow up, I scream about terrorists and run back to the dock.” The king wiped his sweating brow. “What must you remember, My Brigadier?”

“A king should say we, not I,” chided Madcar.

Commando eyes blinked with astonishment. Her head tilted to one side. “What are you talking about?”

Ensign Madcar laughed and twisted his shaggy white mustache. “He means you should not kamikaze your sweet ass unless it is truly necessary. You have to admit you are too, oh, shall we say, too enthusiastic at times.”

“Our most valuable asset is not to sacrifice her life unless it is absolutely required!” commanded the king. He stared at the glove and its huge ring, wishing he understood how the recorder worked.

“My duty is to protect My King.” The brigadier stood straight; her 130 centimeters suddenly seemed to double. Such was the power of confidence. “I once led a team into an Irlane HQ to liberate a Dyb’ general. I lost my lover and my best friend, but I came home with the general. Don’t concern yourself with me.”

Pradesh slapped her stomach. “You shall not return, should you use this.”

“The enemy is L-5, top drawer tech. I wouldn’t get three steps with a conventional weapon, even a plastic knife. They know all the tricks, so we have to deploy new ones.”

“Madcar, you must teach me how to play chess after this is over.”

The ensign turned away from the king so he could roll his eyes. “Yes, sire.”

They stopped the brigadier at the outermost office. In lieu of weapons, Kerrigan Security sported vat-grown muscles implanted by the ton. The brigadier smiled her crooked smile, giving him the high sign. Upon his yell, she would go through the muscle mob like a machete through butter. She needed no bomb to equalize the likes of them.

The mayor’s avarice was obvious. It wasn’t every day that a billionaire moron visited their orbital city. The mayor took him by the arm, touting the investment potential of Kerrigan’s factories.

Once inside the inner reception office, the mayor dallied. It didn’t take a genius to notice the ceiling panels. Similar panels covered the royal airlock. Their sensory webs could scan visitors down to the DNA in their dandruff flakes. Only alien technology could defy the sensors.

The mayor nodded as he spoke, as if his neck were a spring. Leading the Royal into the inner chamber, he introduced the two members of the Councd. The king instantly forgot their names, despite the exhausting briefing he had received during the shuttle flight to the orbital city. A troika, Pradesh had called them. Kerrigan had reduced the usual seven-member council in the name of economy—or so the voters had been told.

The mayor dusted his winged chair before he sat. King Richard remained standing. He cleared his throat.

The troika shared one characteristic: large, dead eyes. The mayor was painfully athletic; he limped slowly on knees destroyed by sports. The blonde woman was painfully Aryan; her skin was so white it nearly glowed. The blue man was merely painful to look at; his dye job appeared fresh. Dead eyes all. Multimillionaires all, they were the primary owners of the touted factories.

“There is one defining difference that separates Kerrigan from the hunnerds—” He coughed his accent away. The blonde woman chewed her knuckles to keep from laughing. “—the hundreds of other poleis. You alone have solved the Grainer problem. It is…” The rehearsed lines poured from his lips until he was interrupted.

“If only we could take credit for our citizens’ common sense,” said Aryan. “Withal, we have suffered terribly from the Trade Commission’s arbitrary retaliations. Our industry has lost several important contracts.”

The king lifted his mauled arm, concentrating lest they distract him from the job at hand. “Do you know who did this to me? A damned Grainer! He should have never been on Mars, but he’d been smuggled off one of those garbage scows. We took the first timid steps to segregate society’s losers. We thought that was protection enough, but we were wrong. Now, they fly throughout the solar system like cancer cells loose in the bloodstream, waiting to infect whatever they touch.”

King Richard IV adjusted the lay of his numb hand. The ring twisted accidentally. Not now! he fretted. The temperature felt as if it’d risen 50 degrees.

“Why haven’t you had that arm fixed?” asked Blue. His pale eyes avoided looking directly at the king’s imperfection.

“I keep it to remind me.” He lied smoothly. “I befriended a Grainer, and this was my reward.”

“A Grainer was once smuggled into our city by a bleeding-heart priest. She caused an outbreak of TB-3.” Blue dabbed his forehead with a monogrammed hankie.

“The Euro—” Thingee, he almost said. He picked a strand of lint off his sash as Madcar had taught him. What did they call their legislative body? “The European poleis around Venus are coming unglued. I’ve been approached by some of my Britons. When the Union disintegrates, I’ll be king to more than a luxury liner. One of the most critical issues I shall face is the charity we are forced to give these interplanetary vagabonds.”

“The Trade Commission has no right to order a sovereign polis to supply these bums!” The mayor sprayed spit as he shouted.

“There’s really nothing to say,” said Aryan. She shifted in her chair as if her doctor had prescribed napalm for her hemorrhoids.

“Fear is the secret! Parasites are cowards by their very nature. My only complaint is how damned long the people waited before they did something about them!” Blue bayoneted the air with a manicured finger.

What else was he supposed to say? How could he have forgotten his lines?

“How did you get away with the riot? I blurt the smallest indiscretion and the media seizes upon it for tomorrow’s lead story across the solar system. How did you keep your roles secret?”

Blue pressed his thumbs against the tabletop until they turned white. The mayor rubbed his knees. Aryan leaned forward.

“Have you considered your kingdom’s future trade policy?” she said. “The dissolution of the European Union will cause massive disruptions in the commercial network.”

The king masked his surprise. Claiming that his Britons wanted him as a ruler seemed absurd when his brigadier had first suggested it. However, first the senator and now the troika sounded convinced it would happen in the foreseeable future.

“Senator Skiepe wouldn’t leave me alone on our flight to Taylor Polis. I’m being actively wooed by the Martians.” The king felt his audience stiffen at the mention of their hated rivals. “But who can trust them? My Privy Council plans to establish close relations with poleis and habitats from Venus to Neptune. Earth is long dead. It is absurd that we continue with the same political groupings that destroyed the Earth—the Europeans around Venus, the Americans of L-5, the Sino-Jays around Saturn. Look at the moon. Russians, Mexicans, Indians, Arabs, and all those others have forgotten the old ways and become Lunars. Look at Mars. Hillbillies, Kurds, Catalonians, Serbs, Afghans, and Mayans have become Martians.”

“Is there a point to this?” asked Blue.

The king couldn’t think of one. Panic made him dizzy. “My Britons will embrace whoever wishes to be our friends.”

What had he forgotten? Madcar had said something about a short-term something. Why couldn’t he remember? Dead eyes stared at him. Sweat cascaded down his chest.

Aryan stroked her long chin with longer fingers. “Independence could be very expensive.”

“In the short-term, I can mortgage the Windsor for several billion. In addition, my extensive holdings are worth twice that. Generous loans can be floated. My kingdom will be a cash customer.”

“Cash always has friends.” The mayor laughed at his wit.

“If my kingdom diverts resources to Grainer charity, we won’t be able to buy what we need for our citizens. If we defy the TC and refuse to supply the losers, we’ll face economic sanctions. Either way, my subjects’ standard of living will drop, and my reign will be over. I need to know how you arranged the riot and scared away the Grainers. Lend me the mastermind of your riot.”

Aryan tented her hands in front of her face. “The Lunars and factions of the L’s are suffering from the same sociological centrifugal pressures as the EuroUnion. When our alliance flies apart, we, too, will need friends.”

“Governments must confer and debate. A monarch does business with a handshake. I’m prepared to sign a trade agreement right this instant. Granted, the treaty will be with the Crown, not my future kingdom. However, once my people raise me to my rightful station, they must acknowledge my obligations as their own.”

The mayor rose and limped to his side. A powerful arm wrapped the king. A dead eye winked. “There’s a new order coming. Either you embrace it, or you are crushed. For the sake of humanity’s future, we must eliminate the weak and unworthy in order to assume our rightful position in the galaxy. What humanity needs is leadership with vision!”

King Richard IV smiled. “I may not be smart enough to have the kind of vision you do, but I can recognize winners when I see them.”

“I think we can do business.” Blue stood, his fingers brushed Aryan’s shoulders. She shivered. “These leeches have to be taught self-reliance, even if it kills them!” His laughter infected them all, one by one.

“Perhaps we should franchise our system!” declared Aryan.

The guest arrived in the airlock four minutes before the shuttle slipped free from the dock. Captain Jones fired the waste-gas jets, rotating the vessel smoothly. The Grav kicked in. A girder moaned. The shuttle dipped to port before acceleration sent everyone grabbing for an anchor.

The airlock intercom sizzled. “Have you got that damned hatch fixed yet?”

Brigadier Wilfort-Smythe banged the switch. “Give us a few more minutes. Sorry about the inconvenience.”

The king struggled with his tangled restraints, trying to escape his chair. He studied the commando as she inserted the gem from his ring into a reader. When her brow furrowed he cringed. Had he screwed up the recording? She chewed the tip of her braid; he gnawed his nails.

Madcar slapped the royal hand. “A monarch never shows his nervousness. Do this.” He cupped a hand over his jaw and slitted his eyes. Fingers slowly stroked his chin. “That is a thoughtful pose.”

“Yes, Fa—” The king had almost said father.

The elderly ensign smiled broadly. His shaggy mustache trembled. Madcar Pradesh rested his hand on Richard’s shoulder. “You did well, Your Highness.”

“It’s a good start, but hardly enough to convict, even in the press. Who is this clown?” asked the brigadier, pointing at the airlock.

Madcar replied, “His name is Brunner, Alfredo Karl, a retired security operative of the Trade Commission.”

“Spies don’t retire.”

“He is wanted on Mars for the assassination of Senator Miller. The last six years he has been living on Kerrigan. No visible means of support. No visible connection with the riot.”

“Ample leverage,” declared the brigadier as she left.

The king watched the monitor. The airlock hatch opened. Brunner stuck out a muscular arm to shake hands. Whereupon, a kick threw him across the chamber. The last Royal Commando leapt to his side, applying a lead pipe to his knees before grabbing the scruff of his tailored suit and dragging him out of the airlock.

The yerp screamed into the royal cabin. Slamming his stubble-covered head into a bulkhead, the brigadier tore off his clothes in lieu of frisking. She sat on his chest, an ice pick in her hand. Its tip rested on the corner of his left eye. The spy became very still.

“I broke your legs as a professional courtesy. I didn’t want you to entertain any idea of escape. You have two choices: one, I torture you to the verge of death and we turn you over to the Martians; two, you make a full confession about the 980.”

He snarled and tried to punch her. She contorted and allowed his momentum to impale the fist on her ice pick. With the grace of a ballerina, she rose in a flurry of kicks that spun the spy like a top. He came to a stop with her foot on his throat.

“I will not kill you, but there won’t be enough nerve tissue left in your spine for an implant. You’ll be dead from the neck down while you spend the rest of your life in a Martian prison. I’m certain your cellmate will help you in the shower.”

“On the other hand—”

The brigadier hopped off the spy’s throat, glowering at her monarch. “My King, you have nothing to say to this pro-fes-sion-al!” Brown eyes flashed as she kicked the prisoner for each of those last syllables.

Her tone frightened the king, but he continued, “Oh, but I do. Citizen Brunner, if you cooperate, I’ll buy you passage to any colony, world, or poleis outside Sol System. Say yes in the next minute and I shall include one million dollars in pocket money.”

“Look me in the eyes,” commanded the commando. She bent and pierced one of the spy’s nostrils.

“It’s a matter of cut-outs!” sobbed the spy. “You sieve the police database for the right criminals to puppet. A few bucks and they’ll assemble all the rabble you need.”

“Where did the money come from?”

“Three blind mice. I have tapes at a postal drop on Mobil Habitat. I knew if something went wrong, they’d sacrifice me. I can give you the Council on a platter.”

“Citizen Brunner, you’re going to be very rich, and very famous, very soon,” said King Richard IV. He wanted to laugh, but he was too busy trembling.

He sat in a corner of the navigation bubble, watching the ships in the holding lane around L-5. At the top of their arc, they crossed the white-flecked orb of Earth. Their blinking lights brought to mind Christmas trees he’d seen in movies.

The king held his reader, twitching its controls to run the AP story Madcar had pulled off the wire. Was there really a wire? he wondered. Everybody talked about it, so it had to be out there. Did it reel out of the back of the ship? No, that would be silly. Only a poleis or habitat would have the space necessary to store that much wire.

The bulletin began with the best thirty-eight seconds of Brunner’s four-hour confession. King Richard IV sat beside the spy. He was glad the brigadier had not allowed him to wear the summer crown as he’d wished. The purple uniform shorn of all ornamentation made him look serious and smart.

King Richard’s speech took seconds. “In this age of confusion, it is easy to forget there is right, and there is wrong. Murder is always wrong. It is that simple. We cannot allow murder to go unpunished.”

A headline filled the screen. He knew the words by heart because the brigadier had read them to him a dozen times. And he could read… some of them.

KING RICHARD THE JUST CRACKS THE CASE OF THE 980, said the headline.

“The Just! I like it,” he said to the Earth overhead. “Maybe the Lion-hearted would be better, but Just is okay. That’s more important than being smart. Isn’t it? You had millions of the smartest people who ever lived, and they nuked the hell out of you. Maybe if there had been more just people, you and your billions would still be alive today.”

King Richard the Just checked his watch. Lunch was an hour away. He could hardly wait!

Content

King Moron
by R. Neube