“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.”