by Selina Rosen
"Sucker!"
She immediately started punching buttons again.
"Hello, Cramont? . . . Yeah, this is me, you old slime . . . No, I ain't dead. Listen, have I got a deal for you! . . ."
Facto walked away, shaking his head. Whatever she was up to, things weren't going to get back to normal until Zarco was returned. He could only hope that would be soon.
A week later, the council room was full again, but this time it was a decidedly different advisory council. This group sported weapons of all kinds. Wore clothing that was scruffy, indecent or both. And reeked of alcohol and smoke.
The reporters waited in eager anticipation for their Queen. Covering the news had become decidedly more entertaining since the Queen's return.
The herald ran into the room as if the very devil was at his heels, and started almost before he stopped moving.
"Her Royal . . . the Queen!"
The reason for his haste was evident when the Queen came bounding through the door, with her entourage practically running to keep up. She walked over to her throne and sat down so hard that she spilled the beer she held in her hand. In her other hand she held a smoldering cigar.
"Sorry I'm late, but I was busy passing a kidney stone."
She looked over her shoulder at Facto.
"How was that?" she whispered, taking a drag off her cigar.
No response.
Drew shrugged, coughed, and pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket.
"My people, my friends, my business associates. Please bear with me while I . . . ah!"
She wadded the paper up, threw it behind her and removed the cigar from her mouth.
"Screw it!"
The crowd roared with laughter. Drew smiled broadly and took a drink of her beer.
"Sheesh I only have two hands, how do they expect me to hold a fucking paper. I've been working in trash for five years, and I know when something stinks. Face it, our country's in the toilet, and at this point we can either walk away and let the shit keep floating, or we can flush and start over again."
The hot ashes off her cigar fell on the red velvet arm of the throne, and she quickly poured beer on it to stop the spreading fire.
"I'm going to ask all of you to think for a moment of the country as a business. A business that is experiencing a sudden, giant loss in profits. Crash! The bottom falls out of your market, and you're stuck with a warehouse full of product that you can't sell. What happens? Any good business person knows that you have to lay off your employees and re-tool! We haven't.
"Factories all over the country have been trading in the business of war. They re-tooled their assembly lines to make the battle machines and tools of war, but now the battle is over. I'm sure another will arise soon. But for the time being, I'm sorry, but there is no war. So, why aren't they going back to what they were making before? Because no one has any money to buy the things they would produce, because they've all been laid off. It's a vicious cycle, and the only way you can stop such a cycle is to bring something completely different into the picture.
"That is where my friends come in. Each one of them is an expert in his own field of salvaging. So, you may be asking-just what is Salvaging? Well, let me tell you. Go to your garbage cans. Are there plastic bottles in them? On the galactic market, plastic bottles are worth money. What about cloth? Did you throw out an old shirt? What about paper? All these things and more are worth money. Not enough to cure the country's woes if considered singly, but multiply your trash by every trash can in the country. Then think of all the machines of war that lie broken and scattered across the land. Think of the cars and planes and space ships littering the country's landscape. Now nothing more than an eyesore, these useless things can make us enough money, and bring us enough jobs to put us back on our feet.
"OK. I know the next question. What happens when all the scrap of war is gone? What then? How do we keep our country from falling right back into the same trap? Simple. By making Gildart the Salvaging capital of this galaxy. By turning our three little spaceports into major Salvaging ports. By training our people in the fine art of Salvaging.
"So, what is Salvaging? Simply put, we will take other people's garbage and turn it into cash. I don't think anyone can find fault with that. Except maybe the people who have everything they want right now. People who still have a job, who don't have bills, and in fact aren't being touched by this economic crunch that is affecting all of you.
"You saw the old advisors reactions to my proposal. All they cared about was how it would look. Look to whom? The Lockhedes? The rest of space? So what! Who is so important to impress that we put our own needs behind the need to look esthetically pleasing? I say being prosperous is impressive. Let them be impressed by how rich our populace is, and let them be impressed by the size of our spaceports.
"And now I'm going to ask the press to leave so that we can get on with this meeting. Thank you."
"My Queen," a reporter in the back protested, "we have always been allowed to sit in on every advisory council for the duration of the meeting!"
"I have said everything that is of interest to the people. All they need to know for now. What will happen from here on is all just complicated bull shit that will be a real snore. We'll be talking at length about such interesting things as weights and measurements, and how many more toilets we'll need at each spaceport to handle the new traffic. Mostly, I don't want you here because we plan to do some serious work here, and I don't want to have to worry about everything we say. I want the members of this council to give their opinions on what they know, not on what the home audience may think. I don't want you to take pictures of someone asleep or someone doodling. I have more important things to do than worry about giving you my good side, and the people at home have better things to do than watch my friend Beamer snore. Now, I thank you for your coverage. Get out."
Despite their protests the Queen's guard hustled out the press.
When they were all gone, Drew looked at her motley crew of advisors and smiled.
"So, now to get down to business. Who's going to get us the scales?"
"Tory found six huge scales on Jastin. He can get 'em for a song," a big man announced.
"All in favor of buying the scales from Tory?"
"Yo!" They all yelled.
"OK, cool. Now, how many bathrooms to a station?"
"I'd say a total of six at appropriate distances around a port with twenty-four stools and ten showers in each," Van Gar suggested.
Drew shook her head thoughtfully.
"I don't know, that's a hell of a lot of plumbing," she said.
"There ain't nothin' I hate more'n ta land at a port and have ta go back ta m'ship ever time I gottah take a crap," a petite green-haired girl in the front row said.
"Point taken, Terry," Drew said. "OK, all in favor of the twenty-four john theory?"
"Yo!" They screamed.
"Well, then I guess that concludes the business for today. All in favor of getting shit-faced drunk . . ."
"YO!"
The servants brought in the bar and the liquor.
Zarco looked through the bars of his cell at the man watching the TV. Marcus had only agreed to remove his hood when Zarco had told him that he recognized his voice, anyway.
"Marcus, why do you continue to hold me? Can't you see it's not doing you any good? Taralin doesn't know how to rule the country!"
"No, but Drewcila Qwah does." Marcus pushed the view screen over so that Zarco could see it.
". . . just three weeks, Queen Taralin Zarco has brought about amazing changes in the economic climate of the country. Unemployment, which only three weeks ago was at an all-time high of fifty-six percent is already down to thirty-seven and dropping daily as the Queen's program goes into full swing."
They cut to a picture of a land fill and a piece of equipment digging up the piles so that a whole herd of men and women could start to pick the valuables from the trash. A news man stuck a microphone in one man's fac
e.
"How do you feel about digging through trash for a living?" the reporter asked.
The man smiled and shrugged. "I don't look at it as digging through garbage. I look at it as cleaning up Gildart. Making the planet cleaner for my kids. I used to look at taking out the garbage as a distasteful task. Now, instead of making trash, we make money."
The reporter moved the microphone back to himself. "There you have it, Tost. Not only have the Queen's programs given jobs to thousands of people, but she has inadvertently solved the nation's landfill problems. Back to you, Tost."
Tost was grinning when the camera flipped back to him. "We go now to Jen Gaston at the old Hammer Munitions Plant where things are . . . well, a little different. Jen?" They switched to a young woman walking though a silent factory.
"Thanks, Tost. Well, things are quiet now, but as you can see, Hammer Munitions has new equipment. This equipment will all be used for the country's new industry—Salvaging. This machine lifts large things, tanks, cars, etc., so that they can more easily be disassembled by these." She held up a pneumatic wrench. "This plant will launch into full production tomorrow morning. So, where is everyone? Well, follow me." She went down a long hall. When she opened the door, you could hear voices. Inside was a room full of people.
"These people are finishing up two weeks of intensive training in preparation for their new lives as Salvagers. All the indications are that the Queen will be making good on her promises. By the end of this year, unemployment might very well be at zero. Back to you, Tost."
Again, Tost was smiling that pasted-on, camera-ready smile. "Thank you, Jen. On a not so up note, there are once again protesters outside the walls of the Royal palace."
They cut to a man standing in the middle of the mob. He had cornered a protester, and obviously intended to interview him whether he liked it or not. "This is Rod Tently, on the street outside the Royal palace. So, sir, what is the problem? I mean, unemployment is on the decline. What else do you want?"
"There is more wrong with this country than just unemployment, man. We think the Queen just doesn't care about anything but making money. She told us to write letters, but so far only the unemployment problem is being addressed. What about medical care and the plight of the farmers? What about crime? She's put a bandage on a scratch, and is ignoring the fact that the patient is still dying."
"But surely there hasn't been enough time to address all the problems we face."
"I don't think our Queen will address any problems unless we make her."
"So, there you have it, Tost. Some people would be suspicious if your gave them a gold brick."
Tost was still smiling, and it was more than Zarco could stand. He turned away from the set.
"Can't you see, Marcus? Her plan is not working. She doesn't understand the needs of the people."
"She understands better than you do. The news man's right. They're not giving her enough time. One thing at a time. The economy was the biggest problem, and she's tackled that one. Rather well, I might add. I've been out there. Gildart used to be such a dirty place. You never saw it, because inside the palace walls things are so clean. But out in the streets there was trash everywhere. No one wanted to claim the trash, so we walked around, over, or through it. Now it's gone. The streets of the Capital are cleaner every day. She's one of us, and she's going to do what's right for us, the working class. She's not going to care what the Lords and Ladies of the court think are worthy causes. She doesn't even care about being popular."
"I could work with her. Let her help me with decisions."
"You'd slow her down, if not stop her altogether. No, you'll just stay right here till the Queen has a chance to fix hundreds of years of Royal stupidity."
Drew watched the screen and tried to block the noise in the street out of her mind. "Fucking peasants," she said lightly to Van Gar. "Why, I gave them gruel just the other day, and would you listen to them? Go down and tax them at once, Fuckto. A 'standing in the fucking road, bugging the shit out of the Queen' tax."
Facto just sat there, his eyes dull, and shook his head.
"I don't think our Queen will address any problems unless we make her," the man on the screen said.
"Oh, damn!" Drew drawled out, "he's figured me out."
"Perhaps you had better start to address the other problems of state," Fitz suggested. "Such as the return of the King."
"Now, Fitz, let's see. Medical, farmers and crime . . . nooo. No one said a damn thing about the missing King."
"None the less, don't you think it's about time that you at least tried to negotiate for Zarco's return?" Facto hissed. "It's been three weeks since we have heard anything. Aren't you even worried?"
"Give me a little while. Maybe I'll have time to worry about it five years from now."
"You are being so harsh," Facto said. "So unforgiving. You weren't here, and you don't know what Zarco went through every day because of your abduction. If you would just meet with these people, at least make sure they are feeding your husband, and that he's well."
"You know, Facto. I have to ask myself if either of you were so insistent when I was out in space someplace having my brains liposuctioned?" There was silence, and Facto even looked down at his feet to avoid her gaze. "That's what I thought. Now, I happen to know that Zarco is in good hands. As far as I'm concerned, he's reaping what he has sown. He wouldn't come after me, and I'm not going after him. Your efforts would be more effective if used to help me run the country the way you're supposed to, instead of begging me to give in to the demands of these terrorists. Why don't you tell me what you told him? How it's my duty not to go after him."
"Those were different circumstances . . ." Fitz started.
"Yes, they were. The enemy during a war captured me, and everyone knew they intended to hurt me. Zarco, on the other hand, is being held by some disgruntled palace guards who I believe have no intention of damaging their King." She was mad, so mad that she couldn't see straight, and she really didn't know why. Then it hit her, and she yelled out. "I'm expendable, but he's not! When it was me, no one gave a flying fuck. Well, now it's his turn, and I don't give a diddly damn, either!"
"He cares about you," Fitz assured her.
"But not enough to go against what you two advised, and you two advised him to let me rot."
"You're being unfair."
Drew shot Facto a heated stare. "Unfair! Unfucking fair! Let me try to spell this out so that even you morons might understand. Zarco let the Lockhedes suck my brains out because he didn't care enough to come after me. Because of this, twenty-six years of my life are lost to me. Totally lost—not even a blur. Among the memories lost is my love for Zarco. So now I don't care enough to go after him. In my book, things are just starting to get even. If you can't advise me without giving me shit about Zarco, then you can get on the bread line with the rest of those advising fucks. Now, go to bed or something, I'm tired of dealing with you."
She glared at them and they bowed low and left.
Drew ran a hand through her hair. "That's something I'm never going to get used to, " she mumbled.
"What's that?" Van Gar asked quietly.
"People bowing when you've just told them to go fuck themselves." She turned her chair so that she could look out at the screaming crowd in the street. It was now ten at night and they didn't look or sound as if they were going to stop anytime soon. "Arg, Van, the crown weighs heavy on my brow." Drew only half laughed. This Queen thing was starting to be a real drag.
"Maybe it's time you stopped trying to build your own little Salvaging empire and started trying to be Queen." It was obvious by Stasha's tone that she was in no way happy with Drew. "Face it, Drew. You found a quick fix for the unemployment problem, and I'm not saying that was any small task. But you don't really have any more idea what the 'people' have to deal with than Zarco did, and you don't understand politics."
"Didn't I just ask you to leave?" Drew moaned.
Stasha smiled. "I'm not o
ne of your advisors. I'm your sister. Aren't you even worried about Zarco a little?"
"No," Drew said quite truthfully.
She picked up a beer and took one long sip, then she took the can from her lips and looked at it.
"Did anyone ever find the human?"
Van Gar laughed and shook his head. "What the hell has that got to do with anything? You didn't even like him, and I bet you ask about him twenty times a day."
