“That I do. Why is it that a wash maid understands that which thirty generals, forty advisors, and endless lackeys do not?”
“I have a simpler life. Less to gain, less to loose,” Anna replied. “Do you want a towel?”
“No, thank you. I’ll drip dry.”
Archon rose from the bath, gently dripping acid from his massive musculature. It dissolved various parts of the flooring not worthy of bearing the weight of the king, creating a scarred and pocked rocky surface which served to exfoliate the royal feet.
In Archon’s father’s time, baths had been taken with water and soap in rooms sealed ceramic tiles. Archon had that all ripped out. Even if they were on a warship larger than most planets, there was no need to lose contact with the old ways. Acid baths, stone tubs, the gentle fumes of reactive material released to be inhaled into the lungs. It was all part of the experience of proper existence as far as Archon was concerned.
Too much had been taken away, whittled down by the advent of technology, and the insistence of the nobles who all insisted that they should have warships of their own. Now half the nobility spent their time whizzing around in space, barely setting foot on anything resembling solid land.
Archon hated space. He hated how it amounted to nothing much besides the absence of everything. He hated the way it was dark all the time, except for the parts which were on fire. As far as he was concerned, space was a necessary evil from getting from one battlefield to another. It had been far too long since the clash of spears, metal on flesh, blood spilled, all the glories and delights of proper war.
He retired to a bed covered in furs, closed his eyes, and wished for war.
“Your highness!”
Archon opened his eyes. He did not know what time it was, but that was because space did not really have time. It wasn’t morning. It wasn’t evening. Anna would sometimes insist that it was teatime, and that he should eat something, but she was wrong about that too.
“What is it, Smithers?”
Smithers was one of many officials who conducted official affairs. He was one of ten or so at the top of the food chain, and probably the only one who had the necessary testicular fortitude to interrupt the king’s sleep.
“I have news of great importance.”
Archon sat up, throwing back the fur to reveal a great throbbing erection which had established itself while he was asleep. Smithers did his best not to stare at it as the king strutted naked across the chamber to fetch his preferred attire, a titanium reinforced kilt which he wrapped around his waist, hiding the impressive nether regions of his body.
“Are you going to tell me what is so important you had to come screaming in here like a pig on fire?”
Smithers licked his lips, forked tongue flickering nervously. Nobody liked hearing the king talk about food. He had a tendency to turn things which were not food, into food. There was a rumor he’d eaten an official when he became unexpectedly hungry.
It was, however, just a rumor. Archon was a large king with brutal tastes, but courtiers were stringy at the best of times. They tended to be old and therefore rather bland and tasteless.
“There is a rebellion among the peasants of Zeta Reticuli!” Smithers declared.
Archon turned, head cocked. “You’re just saying that to cheer me up.”
“I am not. They’re refusing to pay taxes, and they have locked their grain stores away from the collectors. Word has been sent regarding the siege, and royal assistance has been humbly requested with great urgency. They beg your presence, your highness.”
Archon enjoyed being begged, but a rebellion over grain was hardly the sort of thing which made his blood run hot with passion. Peasants were, by definition, not very good opponents. Their resistance was, in a word: futile.
“May I inform the local magistrates that you will be putting in an appearance?”
Archon made a vague grumbling sound and waved his hand in a non-committal fashion. “Surely the local soldiers can handle the matter. I am more of a grand invasion against a worthy enemy sort of king.”
“This is more important than it may seem. Word of the rebellion is spreading. Other colonies are considering their own refusals. And there is a lack of grain.”
Archon signed internally. There were far too many things to care about. A whole universe of things to care for. Sometimes he forgot about important things. Other times he remembered unimportant things. For the life of him, he could not begin to think why he would care about grain.
“Does this ship run on grain?”
“Indirectly, yes,” Smithers explained, bowing his green scaled head. “We pay for the fuel by refining and selling the grain in various products. The planet is famous for cake.”