by Selina Rosen
"Hey! This is one of the hardest jobs I've ever done, and it's going to have to have a big payoff to make it worth all the trouble."
"I still don't buy that you're just in this for the money."
"Well, buy this then, baby. My curiosity has been satisfied. I know just enough about Taralin to know that I don't want to know any more." She walked over and opened one of the lockers.
"By the way, you're moving up to the palace. You can bring your monkey if you want."
"Ha, ha."
Drew opened another locker.
"You can rest up in luxury for a few days, and then you can head out to the spaceport in the biggest baddest limo we can find. We might as well live this shit while we can."
"What's all the noise and rioting? You know anything about that?"
Drew shrugged.
"The natives are restless. Who knows. It's a bunch of government shit. As far as I'm concerned, it's just one more reason we need to get the hell out of here. My guess would be that the country is suffering from a post-war depression. And if I'm right, we need to get out while the gettin's good."
"Can you do that, Drew?" Van asked. "Can you cash in while your people are cashing out?"
"These aren't my people. They're just some chumps ripe for the picking. Right now we don't have a whole lot of options. We are shipless. And a shipless Salvager ain't worth a hell of a lot in real space. I don't think we can count on Erik to set us back up. What with him bein' dead, an all. The way I see it, Zarco and his precious people let this happen to me. So, if what I have become eats his lunch . . . well isn't that just kind of poetic justice?"
Drew met Margot outside the dorm, wearing one of the black and red guard uniforms.
"You can't wear that!"
"Ah, so now the little dresser girl thinks she can tell me what to wear. Not fucking likely. I like it, it fits me, and it goes with the gun," she said, pointing to the laser side arm which hung in a holster strapped to her hip and leg.
"But that's a guard's uniform!"
"And I love it. See, the tight black pants with the red piping up the sides. And I love the way this shirt buttons here and then here to give it that double-breasted effect. It's black on the outside and red on the inside. So that if you leave it open like this, you can see the red, and it just looks so . . ."
"Scant. You can see most of your cleavage."
"Can you really?"
"Yes."
"Then this is just one of the greatest shirts I have ever worn."
They had reached the palace, and the door guards.
"Well, hello, boys."
They both gave her a shocked look.
"Listen, I left your rifle in the guard house. When you go get it, would you be so kind as to retrieve my bed sheets?"
"Your every wish is my command, my Queen."
"And look here." She unbuttoned one of the guard's shirts so that it hung open, exposing his hair-covered chest. Then she walked over and undid the other fellow's shirt. She stood back and admired her handiwork.
"Oh yes, that's much better. Now listen. As of now, all guards working at the palace must wear their shirts undone in this manner."
"What, my Queen?" the hairy one asked, thinking that he must have misunderstood.
"You heard me, man. By Royal Decree. Now, go on. Carry out my orders. I want to see the chest of every man in this palace by sundown tonight."
At that, she strode into the palace.
"You!" Margot giggled. "You can't do that!"
"Why not? I'm the Queen, aren't I? You screws all keep telling me I am, and then when I do my first official act, you balk. I guess there's just no pleasing some people. By the way, do you know what the people are rioting about?"
"Just about everything as far as I can tell. Not enough work, mostly." She shrugged. "It's not my problem, so I don't bother with it."
"That's typical," Drew said mostly to herself. "Let me tell you something, Margot. If that mob decides it's mad enough, and it starts to crawl over the wall, it will get to be all of our problems in a hurry."
"That won't happen now that the King is back. He'll straighten everything out."
"Yeah, right!" Drew scoffed. "He's probably not willing to get any more involved than you are. His answer will probably be to call out the guard and chase them back. A temporary fix at best—at worst a war between classes. This country's only hope of survival is that the Lockhedes are in the same shape that you are. Of course, chances are that things are even worse there, or they would have won the war. Does Gildart have any more enemies on the planet?"
"Gildart and Lockhede are the only civilized countries on the planet."
"And therefore the only ones capable of making war. That makes a hell of a lot of sense."
She'd seen it before. Planets that had been unaware of technology and space travel until someone "discovered" their planet. Then the rich nations suddenly became technologically superior, and the poor ones became primitives almost overnight. It even explained why the castle was such a mangled mass of carved stone and transistors.
She stopped in her stride and stared thoughtfully at the wall. She seemed to Margot to be thinking, and drawing up conclusions. She took her finger and drew things in the air, and then erased them with her fist and started over again.
Margot watched with great interest as her sovereign seemed to be indulging in a bout of insanity.
"And so." Drew nodded her head and made long sweeping figures in the air. "And then . . . so, if . . ."
She grumbled and made still more figures in the air. She seemed to study her conclusion and then slapped her hands together, rubbing them as if to warm them.
"There is a fortune out there. It's saved other countries from post-war depressions before. It just might work, and as an added benefit make me the most powerful salvager in the galaxy," Drew mumbled.
"What might work? Where did you learn so much about politics?"
"I don't know a damn thing about politics, but I trade in other people's problems. My job is to extract money from what is no longer profitable. Come on, let's go find Zarco."
"Well, you're going the wrong way. He's talking with his advisors. This way."
In a few minutes they had reached the door to what Margot told her was the council room. It was guarded by four of the biggest guys she had ever seen. Without question, they moved aside to let her pass through the door. In fact, they bowed as she stepped into the council room.
The room was buzzing with conversation. A man at the door announced:
"All rise for her Royal Majesty, Queen Taralin Zarco."
All rose, including Zarco, who had been sitting in a throne in the front of the room. But though the over one hundred men and women in the council room fell silent, out in the street, the people were still screaming. The noise filtered through two doors which opened onto a balcony a story above the street.
Zarco took one look at what Drew was wearing and grimaced, then he smiled.
"I see you have found something to your liking."
"Very," she ran across the room and leapt into the throne beside him.
Zarco laughed and shook his head.
"So, my love, what can we do for you?"
"You do for me? Nothing. But me? Well, I have the answer to all your economic problems."
"Well, then do tell, dear," he said indulgently.
"Salvage. Salvage is the answer. We're in a post-war depression."
"Please don't do this," Zarco pleaded in a whisper.
"Post-war depression?" One of the councilors said.
"For over five years this country's entire economy has hinged on your war efforts. The building of war machines, a military work force, etc., etc. Now that's all gone. Those people out there aren't your enemy, and they're not the problem. A depressed economy is your problem. Your economy was probably in trouble when the war started, but the war fixed it temporarily. A false fix, really. You should have used the boost to take real steps towards fixing the ec
onomy. Instead, you obviously decided that what was working didn't need fixing, and now you've got rioting in the streets. But I have the answer.
"Salvage. Salvaging is the fastest growing industry in the galaxy. Recycling and re-sale has made many men rich and pulled many countries—indeed whole worlds out of economic disaster. The same machines that were used to build war machines, and now sit idle, can be retooled to disassemble those now-broken and useless machines. The scrap can then be sold at a huge profit to the state. In the right market, you can actually make two to three times what it cost you to build it in the first place . . ."
"My Queen," the young advisor stood up. "With all due respect, are you suggesting that Gildart become the trash mongers of the galaxy?"
The entire council room exploded into laughter. Including Zarco. Drew gave him a hard look and got to her feet. "Silence!" she ordered, and all fell silent. She looked around and grinned. "Too cool." She continued. "With all due respect, morons like you, sir, are the reason that your country is in the shape it's in. There is a big difference between salvage and trash."
She looked at Zarco. "Remember when my ship was sinking in the desert? We took parts from it to build a machine that could carry us out of the desert. We are alive now because of an act of salvaging."
"And I cannot minimize the importance of that act, but it's inconceivable that all the country's woes could be cured by taking parts off of things and selling them. As a nation, we have a certain standard which doesn't include rummaging through our garbage cans," retorted Zarco.
"Do you have any better ideas?" Drew spat angrily at the King.
For a second, she thought that the advisors had drawn all of the air out of the room with their collective gasp.
"I estimate that it's going to take that mob two, maybe three days at the most, and then they're going to come crawling over the wall after you."
"My dear, this room is filled with the finest minds in our country, and together we will find the solutions to the country's problems. And it won't be in the garbage pail of the galaxy."
"Zarco, in this room you have assembled all the greatest tight asses and fools in the country. I'd bet my sweet little ass that none of these men have worked a day in their lives. How can you sit in a room full of politicians and bureaucrats and think that they can help you understand the needs of the working class? You can't take a room full of bloated, over-paid, desk jockeys and pray that they will understand the plight of the unemployed."
Zarco saw the reporters in the back of the room filming and laughing, elbowing each other for the best view of their Queen.
"We can talk about this later, Taralin," he whispered.
"Oh, don't pull that go away little wife and do needle point shit on me. When is the later that we can talk about it? When the people are stomping on our disemboweled innards? Did you bring me back here so I could be your wife again? Or did you bring me back here because of some archaic ritual in which the Queen must die with the King?"
The press was having a field day.
Zarco took a deep breath. "That is quite enough."
"Enough what? Enough sense for the day? Should I leave now so that you can dish out some more shit?" She stepped down off the dais.
"Tell you what. Next time I come in, I'll wear hip boots and bring a shovel." She walked several feet forward, looked at the assembled group, flung her arms wide and screamed. "A real big shovel!"
Zarco's head spun. His beloved wife was making a spectacle of herself in front of the entire advisory council. The press had the story of the year. Much better than the Queen's home-coming! The Council was all abuzz with whispering, and the noise from the street had reached a deafening pitch. He couldn't hear himself think. He got up and strode to the doors, flung them open and strode out onto the balcony before the guards could get there.
"People! My people! We can't fix anything if you do not allow us to work!"
Something flew up out of the screaming mob, and hit him in the head. He put a hand to the bleeding wound in disbelief.
As one guard knocked him to the ground, another opened fire on the crowd.
Drew didn't think. She moved across the expanse in a few great strides. "Cease fire, you idiots!" To add emphasis to her words, she hit them. She looked down at the swelling mob. She couldn't tell how many, if any, had been hit, but it was obvious that it had been all the crowd needed to push them into violent action.
"Moron!" She hit the guard again, then looked down at Zarco.
"What now, bright spot?"
"I'm bleeding!"
"Don't be such a pussy. We're all going to be bleeding in a few minutes if you don't do something."
Already they had dragged him inside, and the King's doctor was taking care of him.
"What would you have me do, dear? Bleed on them?" Zarco screamed.
Drew looked startled and then laughed. "You know, honey, yer kind ah cute when you're mad."
The crowd was getting madder. She stood at an angle to the door so that she could see out, but couldn't be hit by thrown debris. She looked back at the room full of advisors.
"So, here's yer big chance, boys. It's show time. Come on, advise something."
They just stared, and whispered, and dithered.
"That's what I thought," Drew mumbled. She looked back at the crowd and suddenly a smile crossed her face.
"Margot!"
The servant ran forward and bowed.
"We don't have time for that shit. Gather up some of these dopes, go to my room and get all of my clothes."
"But my Queen! "
A bottle came flying in the open door.
"Just do it, Margot."
Margot nodded, called for volunteers and then marched them off in the direction of the Queen's bed chambers.
"Give me that!" She took the riot helmet from the guard who had fired on the crowd. "It's too late to worry about brain damage for you. You'd better give me that, too."
She took his gun.
Then she saw Facto where he stood over the King, looking worried. She took the gun to him and held it out.
"Here."
"Why are you giving that to me?"
Drew shrugged. "Because you're the only one here that I know has a brain, and because I trust you not to shoot me in the back."
Facto raised his eyebrow, and Drew shrugged again. "If my plan doesn't work, I want you to shoot up in the air till I can get my lily-white ass back in here."
Just then Margot returned with the first armload of clothes.
"Wish me luck!" She put the helmet on her head and took the armload of clothes.
"Be careful!" Margot begged.
Zarco finally realized that she planned to walk out on the balcony.
"Taralin! I order you . . ."
He was cut off by her laughter as she and Facto, who stayed just outside the door, strode onto the balcony.
"My people," she yelled.
The mob yelled louder.
She took her gun and fired it above her head.
The mob, having been fired on once, scurried for cover. Then realizing that they were not being fired at, they got quiet.
"My people! We must all bear these ill times. So that I, too, may know what you are going through, I will attempt to live like you 'til this time has passed. As a show of my good will, I give you . . . my wardrobe."
So saying, she threw the armload of clothes down to the mob below. The women, who made up at least half of the crowd, ran for the garments, all else forgotten.
Drew looked back at Margot. "Keep that shit coming!"
She threw armload after armload to the crowd until Margot informed her there was not so much as a sock left to be found of her old wardrobe."My people!" she screamed, but the court herald was suddenly at her side.
"Oyeh! Oyeh! All attend, her Majesty the Queen," he boomed.
The crowd was silent.
She looked at him and smiled. "That's quite a set of lungs you've got there."
He smiled broadly back at her and bowed. "It is always a pleasure to serve You, Your Majesty."
Drew nodded her head, and as he stepped back to stand at her left shoulder, she once again addressed the crowd.
"My people. In my long absence from you I have seen many things, and endured indignities you cannot even think of. Believe me when I say that I know and understand the hardships you are now going through. I'm going to talk to this bloated lot of bureaucrats, and see if we can't do something about the mess we're all in. But anything we decide is going to take time before it works.