La Mort shut the door behind him. The sound echoed throughout the entirety of the room before silence reclaimed it once more. The room was bare: books, scriptures, a table, and chairs. Simplistic, just as the king intended it to be. He walked toward the chair, pulled it out, and sat. The leather creaked under his weight as he pressed the device embedded in his glove, answering the call. A gentle buzzing noise echoed from his wrist, and a few moments later, a holographic blue image shot up into the air and hovered above his wrist. It was General Kantaos of planet Zoron.
General Kantaos stood tall, narrow shoulders; his skin was dark bronze, and from either side of his head extended large fin-like membranes that sat ever so gently behind his ears. He was the leader of his people, the leader of planet Zoron.
As La Mort tried to gauge General Kantaos, he sat there expressionless. “And what do I owe the pleasure of this call, General Kantaos?”
The general stood there calm and composed. “I hope you and your sons are well, my king.” But there was the first crack. As his words left his mouth, sweat started to drip from his forehead, and that subtle tell La Mort was looking for, he lasered in on.
“General, I have no time for pleasantries. I sense the fear that oozes from you, so whatever message you have to deliver, deliver it!” he shouted through a controlled tone, unseating the general.
“I am a busy king, a ruler of many planets. Time is something I cannot give away to the likes of you so frivolously, General.”
“You are right, my king.” The general paused for a moment, fixing his posture and standing upright, trying to give off an image of confidence. “I duly apologise. Now, to the matter at hand: our harvest.” That word alone made La Mort stand to attention.
“Proceed carefully with your next words, General,” La Mort said.
General Kantaos took a deep breath before continuing to explain his predicament. “Half of our crop rotted and became useless, so we had to throw it away, my king.”
La Mort looked into the hologram, his face straight and eyes half-closed. “You called me… for this? Just simply ship the other half, General. An easy solution to something that didn’t warrant my time or energy.”
The general paused momentarily, looking down in the process as he tried to build up the courage to say what he was about to say next; but no amount of delay could build enough courage in the face of La Mort. He was left with little to no choice but to speak, regardless of the fear he felt. He was his people’s leader.
With a deep breath in, then a slow exhale, he spoke. “But that’s the thing, my king. We cannot give you the other half. Our people would be without provisions. We must feed our people until the next harvest, or there will not be another harvest to prepare, my king.”
La Mort’s face paled in comparison to the general’s; while the general’s expression and tone echoed calm, delicacy, and the room for negotiation in the face of potential catastrophe, La Mort’s was the polar opposite. His head twisted as his face contorted into a smile that meant only one thing.
You see, La Mort spared planet Zoron and its race of people because they provided value to his kingdom, value very few provided. So he let them live, on the condition that they delivered a large harvest once per year. A fruitful relationship that had run its course for over a decade without any hiccups. But what the general failed to realise was that La Mort provided no sympathy, even to those who had something to offer him.
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“You either ship what is owed, General, or deal with the consequences of your defiance,” La Mort spat, his words venomous and laced with undying certainty. If their deal was not kept, the whispers of La Mort’s tyranny, the same tyranny their people narrowly escaped, the very clutches of death itself, would make their rounds once more. And this time, there would be no escape, nor any deal to be made.
“My king, you must be reasonable,” the general responded, struggling to keep it together. The pressure of being his people’s leader began to become a burden that felt simply too heavy.
“No!” La Mort shouted, stopping the general before he could say another word. “Being reasonable was allowing you and every one of your people to leave with your lives the day my army swept across your planet. I will not offer the same courtesy twice, General.”
“But my king, if we could, we would. How would double your harvest next year sound to you, my king? I will have the men, women, and children work around the clock,” he said, praying and hoping the king would take him up on his offer.
“You, as do all the rest, know my rules, and I will not bend or waver for any of you. You either follow the rules or perish like the rest,” said La Mort.
“But—” Before the general could finish, La Mort interjected cruelly, cold, void of any care or emotion toward the general or his people. “You either provide what we are owed, or my army will dawn on your planet and swallow it whole, like all the rest. I would hate for your planet to go to waste when we have such a fruitful relationship.”
The general took in every word of what the king said and knew he meant every single one. He was scared, tired, and didn’t know what to do; but what did any of that matter when he and his people were on the verge of collapse? A race that had lived for hundreds of thousands of years was now sitting close to death’s door. His people were relying on him, and he had promised to bring them back good news, a promise that seemed to be slipping out of the palm of his hands.
“May I say something, my king?”
“Go ahead.”
“My people are no use to you dead. Our relationship has been fruitful and consistent. This is the first, and will be the only, time we will miss the harvest. What happened was beyond our control.” The general’s shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath before releasing it slowly, steadying himself. “I have said all I can to convince you my people hold value to you, my king, and I have given you my word this will never happen again. The decision to save my people or bring about the end of our civilisation falls at your door, my king.”
La Mort wasted no time responding to the general’s words. “I cannot be seen to have favourites, General. What message would that send to the neighbouring planets that now sit barren for the same crime you are looking to commit? Yet you want me to let you escape the bloodshed?” He laughed. “No such favouritism shall be provided. You either provide the harvest or you don’t, General. It is you who has the choice laid at your feet. Provide the harvest, or listen to your mothers’, daughters’, and children’s screams as my men slaughter them, knowing you could have saved them all.”
The general’s hands were sweaty, his armpits drenched, as his heart began to beat faster and faster. The weight of his entire race, his planet, was in his hands. “I will tell my men to prepare the provisions to be sent over immediately,” he said reluctantly, as his eyes could no longer meet La Mort’s. He felt shame, embarrassment that he had let down an entire planet. “My people’s safety is paramount, and as their leader, I must see to it.”
La Mort’s chuckles came short and blunt. Sadistic of the man to be laughing in the face of such a dire situation, but that was him. Heartless, merciless. A king who thrived off the pain and suffering of others. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, General? Goodbye, for now.”
“Goodbye, my king.”
As their call ended, La Mort sat there smiling. He looked mad, just sitting there, smiling to himself; but he was smiling for what was about to come. “They would think me a fool,” he thought. “I’ve seen enough suffering, pain, and desperation, General, to know you will not send your harvest. It is a mere decoy to buy time for your people to escape.” La Mort’s hands began to clap slowly. “Bravo, General. Any other and your plan would have been successful. But you needn’t worry about finding a new home. I have one for you all… in the afterlife.”
