Scot Malus

"Why do I do these sorts of things?" he wonders, sitting on a comfortable leather couch in little more than his bath robe, typing and tapping away furiously at his holoscreen, data flying past his eyes in a blur. "Mining, manufacturing, mining, manufacturing.." Then he remembers the silky robe he's relaxing in, on a leather couch stuffed full of fine cotton from some world he can't even pronouce..

"Can I help you with anything else today, Master Malus?", His maid asks him with a smile. "Nothing today, feel free to take the rest of the evening off." As she exits the room he lays back on the couch, remotely sending off requests to the various planets he has workers on, chuckling softly at the commodities waiting for pickup tomorrow, extra work-orders laying on his mid-table. "I guess I'm just one of the more wealthy cogs in this machine we call war. I suppose I should be glad for that. After all, it only took me two lifetimes to get it all together, far less than many of my peers."