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.