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.”
“So we’re going to war for cake.”
“If you wish to put it that way, sire.”
Archon did not want to put it that way. He wanted to do battle with a real enemy, not put down a rebellion of peasants refusing to make gateaux.
“I heard we’re going to war for cake,” Adrianna said, bustling in with a big tea pot full of tea. She was obsessed with tea. Archon had never drunk a drop of tea in his life, but it didn’t stop her from bringing it every what she considered to be afternoon.
Smithers gave her a vicious look. She was an old servant, and should not be speaking to the king at all. In Archon’s fathers time, servants laid on their faces when the king was present. It was proper and correct, though it made dinner time service rather slow.
“You have to stop confiding in the servants,” Smithers hissed, rather unfairly, as Archon obviously had not so much confided in Anna as been overheard by her.
“I would trust the woman who drains my bath a thousand times more than the politician who seeks to marry his daughter to me. I also trust the man who sharpens my sword over the one who begs me to plunge it into the flesh of his enemy. My servants are the ones who are the closest to me, and I trust them implicitly.”
“You do everything backwards, Archon.”
“Do I.”
“You do,” Smithers said. “I credit it for your survival thus far. Nobody is able to predict your next move. They never see you coming, because even you don’t know what you will do next.”
“Save me the analysis, Smithers. Get me to this rebel planet.”
Chapter 3
A bright star appeared in the sky over Zeta, a planet with an old legend about the end of days beginning with a bright star appearing in the sky.
Archon was not aware of that legend, and if anybody on the planet had actually noticed the arrival of a new star, he didn’t care. This journey was boring. The reason for it was boring. The outcome would no doubt be boring.
His only hope was that the rebellious villagers would actually be putting on a proper rebellion, and that there might be some sport in quashing it, but he had his doubts. It was hardly going to be a fair fight, and unfair fights were tedious.
Still, he had nothing else going on, and this was the closest thing to a fight, so he took it.
Archon and his war crew detached from the main warship in a smaller shuttle, and descended to the planet’s government buildings which were constructed suspiciously like a castle. There was no need for a government building to have ramparts, but this one did. It also had turrets and two towers, a rather obnoxious spire, and a flag with a crown on it. The crown of Archaeus. Archon was familiar with it because he’d worn it rather recently. The entire construction filled him with a dubious sense of deep misgiving. Could a building be arrogant and smug? Apparently so.
“Who lives here?”
“This is the home of General Naxus. He is the magistrate of this colony, and commander of your armies here.”
“And he built this place?”
“He did, I suppose. I’m not sure.”
“I’d like to know who was responsible for this.”
“Responsible for the building, sire?”
“Yes.”
Smithers gave Archon a searching, curious look. He clearly did not understand why Archon was fixated on the building. Perhaps he thought it represented an outpost of the monarchy. But Archon did not consider it that way. Especially not when he entered the building and found himself looking at multiple portraits of a particularly dubious looking personage who had shaved all the hair off his head to reveal a single scale right at the top of it. It was considered desperate to have to remove hair to show scales in Archon’s realm, but apparently this fellow did not care about appearing desperate. He simply cared about appearing everywhere.