Star Woes as one single pdf

Version 3
STAR
WOES
Book 1: A New Creed
by Anne Belsey
How to save the galaxy with just a knowledge of basic accountancy and an
understanding of the money supply system!
“It’s like a financial black-hole,” he gasped.
“That is a very good way of looking at it, colonel. It is a debt that will eventually consume
all credit, even that which it has created.”
“It’s criminal,” decided the colonel.
“No, it’s all perfectly legal.”
“Well, it should be criminal; it’s immoral; it’s unethical. It is the most venal sleight of hand
that ever was conceived! And when you think what the Debt Star cost, and what it did... It
crippled the U-Sector government financially. Their taxes were so high that they forced the
creation of the Galactic Empire, at the point of the Debt Star’s neutron-laser, to spread the
cost of the debt over other planets and federations. But, you know, I never realised that the
money that was borrowed to build it never existed in the first place!”
“You understand our mission now, colonel?”
1
Chapter 1
Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far way, where no one had ever heard of Star Wars and no one
had any views as to whether the later films were a patch on the earlier ones, three large hyper-space
transports waited to lift off from their docking bays at Skywalker City Spaceport.
The planet of Tattoo One was dying. That at least was the conclusion of those who had opted to
travel on one of the waiting transports. For years, they had warned their fellow Tattoonians, of all
species, that the planet was heating up, but their message had not been welcomed by the Imperial
authorities for it created anxieties amongst the population.
Now they were leaving, to start new lives on new planets. Planets in the remote and uncolonised
regions of the galaxy’s Outer Rim. These were the planets Standardia, Bacchanalia and Elysium,
and already, the colonists had begun to think of themselves by these names
It was an emotional time for them all. Very likely the three groups might never set eyes on each
other or their old home planet of Tattoo One ever again. Even so, they were excited at the prospect
of creating new homes on new planets. These were planets that had rather more greenery than the
baking deserts of Tattoo One, no vicious tusked-raiders stalking the outer-lands swathed in robes
and bandages, and no weird non-humanoids filling their favourite corner of the cantina and getting
into fights over who had the greenest skin.
The other residents of Tattoo One, who noticed the colonists’ impending departure, watched
them go with mixed feelings. On the one hand they were glad to see the back of these doommongers. On the other hand, their departure rather confirmed their dire predictions that the climate
on Tattoo One was now quite out of control.
In a few years, so the departing colonists claimed, Tattoo One would resemble its twin planet of
Tattoo Two. That was pure desert and had been so even before recorded history, with just the
remnants of a lost civilisation to warn, in vain, the citizens of a later age.
Before boarding their respective craft, all of the travellers had been carefully searched by
members of the Imperial Customs Service, who were backed up as ever by the fearsome Imperial
Stormtroopers in their sinister armoured suits of pale lilac.
“Why’d we have to wear pale lilac, sarge?” asked one bored rookie as the colonists moved off to
their transports.
“It’s the sun, son,” replied the older soldier. “It discolours the white.”
“I kinda like it,” mooted a second rookie, and the first soldier edged away from him, gripping his
blaster more tightly.
The colonists, for their part, were glad to be moving away from all of the Empire’s mindless
military and bureaucratic servants. They were idealists and dreamers, who wore loose clothing
which somehow managed to stay in place without buttons, just a judo belt around the middle. They
had found themselves rejected by the Empire’s mainstream mores, so now they were being ejected
from it. They were not actually convicts, but they were classified as undesirables, being freethinkers, drunks and gardeners.
The technology that they took with them would be of the most primitive and limited kind,
sufficient, in theory to enable these human colonists to survive in their new homes, but nothing
more. They were permitted nothing that would cause them ever to be a threat to the Empire. Neither
would they be permitted to trade with other worlds. Each colony would be alone in the galaxy and
would have to survive or perish by its own accord. That, and other conditions and limitations, had
enabled the Empire to feel confident to allow these misfits and dreamers to leave, and it did not
concede them total sovereignty of their new home planets. They would necessarily be selfgoverning, but would still remain part of the Galactic Empire.
2
They were permitted no weapons, no precious metals, no droids (not even little cute ones that
made incomprehensible bleeps and buzzes), and no money, indeed, it had taken almost every last
Imperial Credit that they had possessed to buy the lease on their new homes, and to stock up with
their tools and supplies.
The colonists, so the authorities reckoned, would be in no position to buy anything even if a
trader did happen to find their lonely new homes. The Imperial authorities confidently expected that
they would all die very quickly on their new planets, and if they did not, the Empire would inherit
some partially developed new worlds.
The Empire had more serious worries than these idealistic colonists. On planets throughout the
galaxy, there was talk of rebellion. Imperial spies had detected the suggestion of meetings, plots and
dangerous talk amongst myriad Imperial citizens. How far up into planetary government this talk
extended, the Imperial authorities had yet to discover, but if it involved planetary governments, the
Empire itself was facing civil war and internal collapse.
As the colonists strapped themselves into their seats on the transports, the space-stewards tore
themselves away from admiring the Stormtroopers’ armour and settled everyone for the trip.
“Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please. You are required to remain seated
with your safety-belts secured until we enter extra-orbital space. We shall by be travelling through
hyper-space and our journey will take approximately fifteen standard time-parts.
“In the event of an emergency, please return to your seats and follow the captain’s instructions.
Than kyou.”
The stewards also strapped themselves in for the lift-off and chatted quietly amongst themselves.
“So did you get to that show? What was it?”
“No, I was working.”
“You’re always working, you.”
“We’ve got a home loan to pay.”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t you get any time off?”
“I try and manage the Emperor’s birthday...”
“Of course!”
“...usually.”
“Hello, Flight-deck? This is the Passenger Module. We are all strapped in and ready to go.”
“Thank you, PM. Let’s get this job done.”
During their jumps through hyper-space to their far distant destinations in the galaxy’s swirling
tendrils, there was time for the colonists to get together to plan their new communities.
The Standardians met to decide on the design of the flag of their new home. The Bacchanalians
wondered what, if any, bar opening times they should have. The Elysians had an informal little
gathering which featured a talk on the correct pruning of fruit trees.
Soon, the three disparate groups had been landed on their new exiles. Here they unloaded their
cargoes and, waving off the transports, found themselves left marooned.
The first actions of the three groups varied. On Standardia, a hastily sewn flag has hoisted and
saluted by everyone with hands on hearts. On Bacchanalia, a barbecue was contrived, and a passing
jimbuck was caught, skinned and grilled. On Elysium, the first action was to brew-up a nice pot of
tea
Thereafter, the pattern of activity on each planet was much of a kind. Food had to be identified
and caught or collected, the forest cleared, wood cut, habitations erected, fields and gardens created.
These activities took up all their time and energy and with each person depending upon the health
and well-being of everyone else, all, or at least most, strove their hardest to benefit their fellows as
well as themselves.
3
Contrary to official hopes, on none of the three planets did the colonists starve, although all three
came close a couple of times. Neither were they consumed by giant underground worms or eaten by
abominable snow-bears. However, they did all stop celebrating the Emperor’s birthday, which just
shows how far off the wall these guys were.
Soon new baby colonists added to their number, and the colonies flourished and prospered. They
had worked hard to create their new lives. They had established themselves as viable self-sufficient
communities, although some of their members muttered as to how some had not worked nearly as
hard as their fellows and were now reaping more than their fair share of the rewards.
Chapter 2
One fine day on Standardia, a tiny speck of light appeared in the sky between the planet’s twin
suns.
“I hope that is not an Imperial Patrol Ship come snooping,” muttered Tex Stardust, the elected
Governor of the Great Society of Standardia.
“Nothing we can do if it is,” added his neighbour, Jefferson Clintwood.
“They might not like the flags,” mused Tex, nodding towards the starry and spangly banners that
adorned every homestead in the settlement. “They ain’t Imperial colours.”
“No,” confirmed Jeff. “They’re the flag of the Great Society of Standardia!”
The shiny speck resolved itself into a space-ship entering the atmosphere and heading straight
for their settlement.
“Weirdest craft I ever seen,” mused Tex.
“At least it ain’t an Imperial craft,” added Jeff.
As the craft settled in a flat meadow by the river. The men-folk among the colonists formed an
ad-hoc welcoming committee whilst the women-folk called their children to their homes. One
young man suggested that they form the farm wagons into a circle, but his elders thought that was
taking things too far.
A door in the starship opened and from it there emerged a large slug-like creature, who oozed
down the ramp surrounded by acolytes and guards of various sizes and species.
“Greetings, people of this fair land of Standardia,” was the message that emerged from the slug’s
electronic chest translator. “My name is Barcla the Hoard, and I am come here to trade with you.”
Tex stepped forward.
“We know who you are, Mr Barcla, sir, we actually come from Tattoo One ourselves. Welcome
to the Great Society of Standardia. I’m Tex Stardust, and I’m the Governor here. It’s mighty fine of
you to call in on us folks, but I have to tell you that we are a Restricted Planet. Restricted by the
Empire, we can’t trade off planet.”
A booming laugh, that needed no translation, echoed around the settlement.
“If you know me, my friends, then you will know that I, Barcla the Hoard, care not for Imperial
restrictions?! No, no, let us trade and prosper, my friends. What do you wish to buy? I have some
excellent droids, only two careful owners, some of them.”
“I am sorry, Mr Barcla, but we have no money.”
“No money?!”
“Its one of the restrictions we have to live under.”
“None at all?”
“None.”
“Perhaps you have other useful items with which to trade. Kryptonite? Platitudinum? That
Tibannium stuff that is all the rage for hyper-drives?”
4
“Nope, nothing like that. We plan to do some prospecting some time, but at the moment we’re
just planning on feeding ourselves. We got plenty of corn. We could trade in that.”
“Thank you, I have no use for corn. But I see that you have a nice green planet here.”
“Oh yes, much greener than Tattoo One. How is the old planet, sir?”
“As dry as ever, and getting drier all the time... Ah, but back to business. You must have some
Imperial Credits tucked away somewhere.”
“No sir, we ain’t. Weren’t allowed to bring none.”
“Hmm. Curious. So how do you trade amongst yourselves? I see that you have a thriving
community. You must trade with each other?”
“We have such a green and pleasant planet, sir, that we grow and make what we need for
ourselves.”
“Yes, but real wealth comes through trade, through the specialisation of skills and the exchange
of the products of those skills, requiring some medium of trade.”
“Sir, we generally barter things, and kinda just try and do things for each other as and when we
need them.”
Tex looked around at his fellow settlers, gazing at some of them rather pointedly.
“And it works... this communal bartering and what have you?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Some people don’t pull their weight, though,” muttered Jefferson Clintwood, loud enough for
everyone to hear.
“Indeed,” wondered Barcla. “Would not a means of exchange be beneficial to you?”
“A means of exchange?”
“Money, my friend.”
“Like I say, sir, we have no money. We were not permitted to bring any.”
“Tsch. man, I have money. I have much money, trading with the outlying parts of this great
Empire of ours is most profitable. Out here, questions are neither asked nor answered and Imperial
Customs Officers fear to tread. I could lend you some money.”
“Lend us money?”
“Of course. A normal business arrangement, is it not? The initiator of trade. The creator of
wealth?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure the Imperial...”
“If you don’t tell them. I won’t,” oozed the slug.
“Even so, if we get a visit and they find we’ve got Imperial Credit Notes... Well, that would be
an arrestable offence. You know that they got some sort of detection device built into them? Patrol
ships can spot them from space.”
“Hmm. So suppose the money was not actually Imperial Credit Notes?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Suppose I lend you some notes marked up as... what shall we say, dollar bills of the Great
Society of Standardia, each one being the equivalent of one Imperial Credit and backed, of course,
by my own prodigious reserve of Imperial Credits?”
“Then to any snooping Imperials, it would be not be regarded as proper money?”
“Exactly, my friend!”
“How much?”
“How much do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t trade off planet?”
“Like I said, we’re restricted. We’re not allowed to.”
5
“How very obedient of you.”
“This is our home, our freedom. We don’t want to screw it up by being caught by some passing
Imperial Patrol!”
“Have no fear on that regard, my friend. I just mean that whatever the amount, the value of the
money will find its own level. Would a thousand Imperial... er, Standardian dollars do?”
“A thousand, yes, I guess... If each family has an equal share...”
“I don’t care how you share it out amongst yourselves, my contract will be with the planet’s
governing council. I trust that you have such a body? The Empire did not deny you the capacity for
self-government?”
“No, of course not. First thing after we landed here, we drew up a constitution and elected a
governor, a senate, a judge, a sheriff, chief-fire officer, sanitation officer, dog-catcher...”
“Yes yes, I see.”
“... well, second thing actually, after saluting the Standardian flag.”
“ Ah, yes, presumably you would want the flag to feature on these dollar bills...”
“Oh yes sir! Or maybe our great seal. And can we have a drawing of that mountain over there, its
kinda distinctive...?”
“The one that looks like a pyramid with the top cut off?”
“Yes, and we’d like the words ‘In the Source we trust.’ on them as well.”
“The Source? You know of the Source?”
“The Source of all life, of course.”
“Of course. The Source of all life?... Nothing else?”
“What else is there?”
“What indeed! What indeed! Good good, then I shall draw up the contract. Now there is the
matter of interest. You are the undesirables of the Empire...”
“We are independent minded free-thinkers, and honest Source fearing folk!”
“Exactly, hardly a good risk. I think that 30% would be a fair rate, but as I like you, I am
prepared to go as low as 20%. Payable for each standard galactic year.”
“20%? Hmm...”
“Will you get a better deal elsewhere?”
“No. No, I guess not.”
“Give me two hours and I shall have the bills and the contract all ready for you.”
Two hours later, sure enough, a neat little stack of dollar bills sat on a table before the
Governor’s house. Tex inspected the design.
“What’s the eye above the mountain for?”
“I hope you don’t mind. That’s just my little addition, to remind you that I will be keeping a
kindly eye on things here. I have to guard my investment. Do you not agree?”
“Okay, I guess so.”
“One more thing,” added Barcla. “You will find that as your economy grows, you will need
more money to permit that expansion. I shall, of course, be happy to oblige... providing that your
repayments come in on time.”
“Certainly, Mr Barcla, sir. Thank you.”
So the deal was agreed and the whole of the people of the Great Society watched as Governor
Tex Stardust signed and sealed the document that gave the community its new currency. Barcla the
Hoard signed a matching document and beamed with pleasure as applause echoed around.
“Thank you, good people of Standardia. I wish you every success and prosperity with your new
money. I shall arrange collection of the interest in a year’s time. It has been a pleasure doing
business with you, my dear friends.”
“And with you, Mr Barcla, Sir. Thank you!”
6
“Now tell me, are there any other Restricted Planets, that you know of?”
“Only Bacchanalia and Elysium. Their people left Tattoo One the same time as ourselves.”
“Mmm. Bacchanalia and Elysium, you say? Thank you, and goodbye.”
Chapter 3
On Bacchanalia, the first few years of successful colonisation had also resulted in a feeling that
the ‘let’s all pitch in and help one another’ ethos that had dominated the community’s early days
was enabling some to get more out of the communal effort than they were putting in.
Inevitably, the brewing of alcohol had been an early skill mastered by the Bacchanalians, and
after several pints of the drink that they called XXXX, fights would break out after arguments as to
who had done what for whom and why whom had not yet done anything for who, even though
whom had been doing things for other people who in turn had done things for who. It all became
very confusing.
A meeting of the Council of the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia was convened It was reckoned
that it would be a significant event in the community’s development, so everybody attended, quite
unusually. All the adult members of Bacchanalia’s population came along to watch the fireworks.
Bruce Brewsterson was one of the most vocal critics of the existing supposedly laid-back
system. After a long tirade of very colourful words, directed at certain of his neighbours, who were
fortunately insufficiently inebriated to deck him just yet, he ended with the comment:
“We need to pay for things like we did on Tattoo One.”
“With money?” queried the council chairman, Howie G’dbody.
“Of course, with money, Howie. What else?”
“Okay, Brucie, don’t get excited. I’m just checking the facts here.”
“Yes, money. Then those lazy bastards that want to lounge about all day drinking will be able to
do so only as far as they can afford to. When they run out of money, they’ll have to do some work
like the rest of us and earn some.”
“Fair enough, Brucie. That’s a good point. Now Sheila, you wanted to speak?”
“I thought that the point of this colony was to get away from chasing after money?” Sheila
Diggerdigger reminded them.
“I’m not blaming you, Sheil,” voiced Bruce. “We all know you’re one of the hardest working
people on this planet, and you don’t drink much neither, but let’s face facts, things are not working
as they should.”
“True, but the problem is, Brucie,” interposed Howie, “we don’t have any money. You know
that.”
A hush descended upon the council as everyone considered this salient fact. Then Sheila stepped
forward. She looked at all the other women in the room, one by one, and received barely perceptible
nods from each in turn.
“That’s not strictly correct, fellers,” she ventured carefully.
“What do you mean, Sheil?” queried the chairman.
“I mean that all the women in this colony did bring some Imperial Credits with us. A hundred
each, isn’t that right, girls?”
The other women nodded.
“But we were all thoroughly searched...?” gawped the chairman in amazement.
“There are some places that not even a well-bred young Imperial Customs Officer would
considering looking!”
“You mean? Shit!”
7
“No, the other one.”
Chairman Howie G’dbody gazed around at the hubbub. Women were coyly holding their
partner’s hands.
“Any family not got any money?” he asked.
No one answered in the affirmative.
“Then that’s it then, let’s just get out there and buy and sell like we did on Tattoo One. No
worries!”
“Wait a minute,” cried a concerned voice from the crowd. “we’re still not permitted to use
Imperial Credits. Just suppose some Imperial Patrol Ship should happen by?”
“An Imperial Patrol Ship?” gasped an incredulous Brucie. “Do you know just how far this planet
is from the nearest other galactic civilisation, Dewie? It’d take them months at standard patrolling
speed. There ain’t gonna be no ‘passing Imperial Patrol Ships’. No, mate, we’re well out of it.
C’mon fellers, let’s have a beer to celebrate!”
A cheerful and relieved collection of Bacchanalians emerged from their meeting hall into the
bright light of the planet’s twin suns to see a pin-point of light diving down through the atmosphere
towards them.
“Better hide your money, girls. It looks like the Empire has not forgotten us after all!”
Yet, it was soon clear that the craft that headed towards them was nothing to do with
officialdom, neither military or civilian.
“What a weird looking craft.”
“Certainly is. Weirder than the animals on this planet, even.”
“Sort of thing that you’d design after a few beers!”
A door in the starship opened and there emerged a large slug-like creature, who oozed down the
ramp surrounded by acolytes and guards of various sizes and species.
“Greetings, people of this fair land of Bacchanalia,” was the message that emerged from his
electronic chest translator. “My name is Barcla the Hoard, and I am come here to trade with you.”
Howie stepped forward.
“G’day. Barky, I’m Howie, this here’s Brucie. Welcome to the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia.”
“Barky? I am Barcla the Hoard...”
“Yeah, we know who you are, mate. We’re from Tattoo One. How is the old planet?”
“Dry. Yours, I see, is much less dry.”
“Yeah, it’s not too bad. It’s still pretty warm, which is nice for a barbie, but we can get a good
crop out of the ground. Mostly hops and barley, of course. What can we do for you, mate?”
“Mate? Hmm. I am here to trade with you.”
“Oh, great, what you got?” called Bruce Brewsterson.
“You wish to buy?”
“No!” urged Howie. “I’m terribly sorry about this, Barky me ol’ cobber, but we’re a Restricted
Planet, not allowed to trade off planet,” explained Howie.
Then he whispered fiercely in Bruce’s ear.
“It could be a set up.”
“What? Oh, yeah.”
“Do not be afraid of trading with me, ladies and gentlemen...” The Bacchanalians gazed about
themselves to see whom the great slug was addressing. “... I have no truck with the Imperial
authorities. I too am an outsider, trading unofficially when occasion demands, if you gather my
meaning.”
“Yeah. No worries, right?”
“Indeed, I have recently been engaged in establishing a business partnership with the good
people of Standardia...”
8
“Standardia?! Hey, that’s Texy’s and Jeffy’s lot!” cried Bruce.
“Jeffy? No, think that one’s best left as ‘Jeff’,” corrected Howie.
“So, how’re they getting on?” called Bruce.
“Prospering. Do very nicely. Indeed, rarely have I seen such a thriving flag making industry...”
“Flags?”
“Yes, they are very partial to flags.”
“Oh, but what’s their beer like?”
Barcla the Hoard shrank back in horror.
“Beer?” he managed.
“Don’t you like beer?”
“Like it? I love it, but I cannot...”
“What, you get dead drunk?”
“No, my fate would be far worse than that. Please do not mention it again.”
“Well, Barky, me ol’ mate, I reckon you’re a bonza fellow. I reckon we can trade... We’ve got
loads of hops and barley, and there’s only so much bee... drink we can make at anyone time,”
decided Howie.
“I have no wish for hops or barley, whatever they are for... Unless they are narcotics, of course...
No, I rather thought that you would be interested in borrowing some money.”
“Borrow some money?”
“Yes, if you have none.”
“Whoa, hold it right there, Barky me ol’ mucker. Who said that we had no money?”
“Are you not a Restricted Planet?”
“If you have things to buy, we might be able to lay our hands on some Imperial Credits. So what
have you got?”
“Droids, second-hand, but excellent condition?”
“Nope, we’re not really set up to use droids.”
“Weapons?”
“What?! For this drunken set of bastards? Far too dangerous.”
“Narcotics?”
“Nah, we’ll stick to bee.. drink.”
“But do you not need to borrow some money, for your own internal trading, perhaps?”
“Nope, no need for that.”
“Got any brewing equipment?” queried Brucie Brewsterson.
“No!!”
“Well,” finished Howie, “its been nice meeting you, Barky. You’re a good shooter, but if we
can’t share a beer together, and you’ve nothing we could use and we’ve nothing that you want, then
maybe we’re wasting each other’s time. We’ve had a busy day and want to chill out with a few
bee... drinks. So I’ll bid you g’day.”
“Good-day to you.”
Barcla the Hoard slithered back up the ramp and, in less time than it takes for a Bacchanalian to
down a pint in one, his weird craft, whose shape reminded some watchers of their own native
fattypus, had shot up into space and was gone.
Chapter 4
Like their fellow settlers on Standardia and Bacchanalia, the good people of Elysium had also
settled down to the serious business of turning their new planet home into another Eden. They had
9
been particularly pleased to discover that the soil type and climate of a nearby valley was perfect
for the cultivation of tea bushes. Other more substantial food stuffs were grown, with rosettes
awarded to those able to produce the best vegetables.
Those less green-fingered types engaged themselves in the erection of dwellings. One for every
family, each with their own potting shed in the garden at the back, although in most instances it was
not quite clear which structure was the house and which the shed.
Nevertheless, as the years passed, they flourished and bred, mostly dahlias and hydrangeas, but
some people had children as well, but then some people do.
The biggest problem on the planet were the grass verges along the public roads. Some people
diligently trimmed theirs neatly; others did nothing on the grounds that the land in question was not
their own private land so it was hardly their responsibility. This attitude usually received the retort
that the neglectful ones did not even do much to keep their own little plots in order, and was not it a
disgrace and should not the council do something about it?
Unfortunately there was no governing council on the planet Elysium. Too many other activities
filled people’s spare time. Most importantly, there was the Elysium Gardening Club and the
Elysium Horticultural Society. The members of both these august bodies liked to look down their
noses at each other, but they combined to utterly despise those whom they regarded as NonGardeners. These, lesser mortals in the planet’s subtle polity, included the members of the Elysium
Ex-Conscientious Objectors’ Association, the Old Tattoonians Cricket Club, the Imperial Starship
Spotters’ Club, the Elysium Mother and Toddler Group and the Elysium Chapter of the Valhades
Demons.
This latter group had recently perfected the wooden velocipede and upon these vehicles, the
Demons would hurtle slowly along the variously trimmed lanes of Little Elysium-on-the-Planet (the
name that the good people of Elysium had bestowed upon their village).
It was one evening at the Elysium Gardening Club, quite the largest of the planet’s semi-official
bodies, that the matter of the verges finally came to a head. Sitting in the Little Elysium-on-thePlanet parish hall, beneath the portraits of the Emperor and Lord Bader gazing malevolently down
(Oh, but they do so much for the Empire, you know, really, and it is not amazing that Lord Bader
can still fly his Bow-fighter without any legs?), Mr Harold Sodbuster considered the proposition
before him.
“Let me see if I’ve got this right, Derek. You think that the only way to sort out the matter of
Elysium’s verge problem is if those people who do trim their verges, or rather those verges which
correspond to their own aligning property...”
“Eh?” queried old Mr Grumbleweed.
“Those verges next to their houses...”
“Aye.”
“.. should be paid a stipend by the civic authorities.”
“What’s a stipend?” asked old Mr Grumbleweed.
“A sort of wage.”
“So why not say so?” asked Beryl Skyspotter.
“Well, because the word wage is so... well, so... you know? What workers get paid,” answered
Mrs Grace Flowerplucker.
“What, like people who trim verges?”
“Yes... No... I mean, its what people get paid who have to work for a living.”
“But we all have to work for a living. Mind you some people work harder than others. That
couple at number 6... always charging about on that velocipede of theirs. You hardly ever see them
do a stroke of work and why ever did they need to write the number 6 three times on their front gate
for? I’ll never....”
10
“Ladies and gentlemen,” called an authoritative Mr Sodbuster. “Can we get back to the matter in
hand?”
A respectful hush descended, allowing Mr Sodbuster to summarise their difficulties.
“As I see it, Derek, whilst your proposition is clearly very public-spirited and very much in
keeping with the aims of this Club, unlike those daft Horticulturists with their constant measuring
and experimenting, it does present us with two fundamental difficulties. One, there are no civic
authorities and, two, we have no money with which to pay people.”
Grace Flowerplucker raised an elegantly manicured hand.
“Whay do we not constitute a civic authority?”
“Way do we not? Oh, why do we not? Oh, yes. Well, the authority would need to use this hall,
Mrs Flowerplucker...” He paused to make sure that her name had come out correctly. “... and it is in
use seven nights a week as it is, what with all our different interest groups.”
“Why don’t we pair up with the Horticulturists?” suggested a small neat woman who, until that
instant, had been a close friend of Mrs Flowerplucker.
Every eye in the hall turned towards her with a look of horror. No one felt any need to explain
why this would be an utter impossibility and her suggestion was passed over.
“There is Mrs Poppinjay’s Mother and Toddler Group... I mean, she’s the only one on the planet
with a toddler at present...,” piped up an anonymous voice from the back.
“I don’t think that we can discriminate against any of our user groups on the basis of numbers,”
judged Mr Sodbuster.
“How about meeting during the daytime?” suggested Derek.
Silence greeted this suggestion. It was not a silence of shock, still less one of horror. It was one
of simple incomprehension.
“Have a meeting in this hall during the daytime?” asked the Chairman carefully.
“Yes.”
The silence continued as objections were sought.
“But that would mean, Derek, not meeting in the evening...”
“It would.”
Mr Sodbuster took the gamble of his entire career as Chairman of the Elysium Gardening Club.
“Yes. Why not?”
The murmur amongst the audience was audible. Members of the Elysium Gardening Club gazed
at one another with the same question on everyone’s mind: Would not having a meeting in the
parish hall during the daytime mean the end of civilisation as they knew it? Everyone attempted to
gauge the reaction of everyone else without committing themselves. Would it be proper? Would it
be decent? Finally, Grace Flowerplucker spoke.
“If it is for the well-being of Little Elysium, I cannot see that there should a problem.”
Indeed not, the other members began nodding to one another. If it is for the good of the
community, then it would be all right, and if Mrs Flowerplucker, with her elegant beds of roses,
thinks that it is quite respectable, who could gainsay it?
“Very well, then, but there is the second problem, Derek. The matter of money. We don’t have
any. We weren’t allowed to bring any...”
“I’ve got an old Corelfornian silver dollar,” piped up a voice from the back.
“Thank you, Mr Potstuffer, but I don’t think that will help.”
“I have been thinking about this,” continued Derek, and there was a noticeable edging away
from him. Thinking was dangerous stuff. It was the sort of thing those Horticulturists got up to.
“Money is merely a means of exchange. It works providing everyone accepts that it has value.”
“You mean, of course, providing that it is backed by some tangible commodity?”
“No. It doesn’t need to be. It just needs the acceptance of the community.”
11
Nervous eyes once more glanced around the hall for signs of a rending in the fabric of the
universe.
“But surely only a properly constituted authority could issue money like that, like the Emperor,
‘may the Source be with him’?”
“I thought we left Tattoo One to get away from the Emperor?” asked Potstuffer from the back.
“Oh, no, you can’t blame the Emperor just because some of his officials get over-bureaucratic at
times...” answered Mrs Flowerplucker.
“They shot a mate of mine for laughing at a Stormtrooper’s lilac armour...!”
“And what’s wrong with lilac?!”
“Even so,” persisted Derek, steering the conversation back to its proper course. “Like Mrs
Flowerplucker says, if all the people of Little Elysium decide to have a governing council, we can
have one. Then that can be the authority that issues the money.”
Mr Sodbuster was not sure that was what Mrs Flowerplucker had in fact said, but he detected a
wave of approval through the hall. Mrs Flowerplucker’s verges were trimmed neater than anyone
else’s in Little Elysium, so her views carried weight.
The following Tuesday was a momentous one in the history of Little Elysium, not only did it see
the first ever daytime meeting in the parish hall, but it also witnessed the election of the Little
Elysium-on-the-Planet Parish Council, with Mr Harold Sodbuster as its chairman.
“Right, now then, ladies and gentlemen,” moved the newly installed Parish Council Chairman.
“The second item on the agenda is the establishment of our own currency.”
A hubbub of excitement echoed around the hall.
“Yes, I know, it’s all very strange and wonderful, but our newly elected Council Treasurer, Mr
Derek Moneypenny here, has been looking into this matter, and I am assured that it is all above
board and in order.”
“Who’s going to make the money?” asked a voice from the back.
“No one will make it. One of our younger members brought a game with her which included
some toy paper money, she has given it all to the council in exchange for the erection of a swing in
her back garden. Isn’t that right, Jessica? Stand up, Jessica.”
The girl stood up to receive the applause of the gathering.
“It is proposed that this be the official currency of Elysium, the Toy Town Pound.”
“I don’t think that you can do that, can you? Create money out of nothing?” called Mark
Skyspotter, the spottiest of the Starship spotters.
“Why not?” asked Mr Sodbuster. “We are just creating a medium of exchange to facilitate the
trade of various goods and services.”
“Yes, but, if I remember my school economics lessons, the creation of equity in the form of bank
notes or anything else has either got to be backed by some tangible commodity or, if it is a mere
paper transaction, has to be balanced by a debit in the form of a debt.”
“Isn’t Equity what actors belong to?” asked a voice from the back.
“No, equity as a financial term means a thing of substance, a tangible asset. These bits of paper,
what do they represent?” explained an agitated Mark Skyspotter.
Mr Sodbuster felt himself getting out of his depth, he turned to his Treasurer.
“Derek, can you help us here?”
“Yes, Mr Chairman. What Mr Skyspotter says is quite correct, but there is the matter of
perception. Put simply, we are not suggesting that this money that we are issuing is equity...”
“What?!” barked the spotty spotter. “But it has to be!”
“But I thought that you said that it could not be?” queried a puzzled Mr Sodbuster.
“But it has to be if you want it to have value!” shouted Mark.
12
“But we don’t want it to have value, not in itself. It is, after all, just some small pieces of paper
printed up with an elaborate design to avoid counterfeiting, in a range of different denominations. It
has very modest inherent value, as part of a child’s plaything perhaps, and one might argue that the
design is rather attractive. But here on Elysium, what real use is it?”
“Lighting a fire?” suggested someone.
“That’s it,” agreed Derek. “Fire lighting material, wouldn’t keep you warm long, mind. But
instead, if we agree upon it amongst ourselves, it can be used to represent the real things of value
that we do for each other. Fiat money is the technical term, I think you’ll find. That’s money that
has value through statutory authority.”
“Fiat?” asked a voice from the back. “I had a land-speeder made by them back on Tattoo One.”
“It won’t work!” declared a desperate Mark, angry that his knowledge could be so casually
dismissed.
“Neither did my land-speeder.”
“Why not?” asked Mr Sodbuster, ignoring the muttering idiot at the back.
“Because people won’t accept it!” asserted Mark defiantly.
Mr Sodbuster looked about at the packed hall, full as it was with the adult population of
Elysium.
“All those in favour of accepting Toy Town Pounds as the official currency of Elysium, please
raise your hands.”
Mrs Flowerplucker’s hand rose elegantly into the air, to be followed immediately by a forest of
arms throughout the hall. Most of the people there had barely understood a word of what had
passed, but if it was good enough for Mr Sodbuster, Mrs Flowerplucker and Derek Moneypenny,
then it was good enough for them. Even the Horticulturists were happy with it all. They might
denigrate Harold Sodbuster as totally un-scientific in his gardening methods, but for sheer probity,
he could not be faulted.
“Those against?”
Mark’s arm shot up. He was joined by two of his spotting friends.
“Abstentions?”
There were four of these.
“Motion carried by a handsome majority, I think.”
“But its still only toy money, silly money, funny money. Imperial Credit Notes are backed by the
authority of the Emperor,” objected Mark. “You won’t catch me using it.” And he stormed out of
the hall.
“Nobody has to use it, if they do not want to, but it will be issued by the Parish Council. It is all
safely under lock and key, or rather three locks and keys so that no one person has access to it.”
“So are we going to share it out then?” called the voice from the back “How much will we each
get?”
“No,” continued Mr Sodbuster. “The plan is that the money will be the property of the people of
Elysium as represented by their elected Parish Council and will be paid out by this Council to
people who do public works. So, those who trim the verges along the roads will be paid a stipend,
those who don’t won’t.”
He glared meaningfully at the leather-clad Demons, the white-sweatered Old Tattoonians and the
Starship Spotters in their anoraks.
“And there are other public works that need to be undertaken,” continued Mr Sodbuster. “This
parish hall has not had a lick of paint since we first put it up. We need a school for the children; a
proper medical centre; the roads need mending, and we could do with a stronger bridge over the
river. Are there any objections to this proposal?”
13
Neither hand nor voice was raised in opposition, the motion was carried, and the Toy Town
Pound was a new fact of life on the planet Elysium.
The meeting broke up, but most people stayed to enjoy a nice cup of tea prepared by some of the
ladies of the Gardening Club under Mrs Flowerplucker’s watchful eye. They did not trust the
Horticulturists to make a decent cup of tea. They probably all drank coffee, anyway.
The newly elected council gathered to enjoy their refreshment on the veranda, congratulating
each other on a good day’s work, and gazing across the neatly trimmed village green with pride.
Out on the green, a huddle of Starship Spotters, Mark Skyspotter conspicuously absent, pointed out
that there was, at that very moment, a starship heading towards them. Sure enough, up in the clear
blue sky, a bright shiny object could be seen growing perceptibly bigger.
“D’you know,” mused Mr Sodbuster. “I can never get used to us having only the one sun. It
doesn’t seem natural somehow.”
“Single suns are actually more common than binary ones, though,” commented Derek.
“Looks like we’ve visitors,” muttered Mr Sodbuster. “An Imperial Patrol Ship, I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“Well, they’ll find nothing wrong with my verges!” declared Derek.
“Funny looking craft. I don’t know who’s designing the Imperial Space Fleet these days, but
they could have done a better job, I’m sure.”
“No, I don’t think it is an Imperial Ship.”
The strange-looking starship landed on the village green, to the mild disapproval of its selfappointed guardians. A door in the starship opened and there emerged a large slug-like creature,
who oozed down the ramp surrounded by acolytes and guards of various sizes and species. The
gardeners among the crowd instinctively reached for a heavy object, and then paused. How do you
squash a slug that is seven feet tall?
“Greetings, people of this fair land of Elysium,” was the message that emerged from his
electronic chest translator. “My name is Barcla the Hoard, and I am come here to trade with you.”
“Are you lost, Mr Barcla? You’re a long way from Tattoo One,” asked Mr Sodbuster.
“No, I am not lost. This is Elysium, is it not? Take me to your leader!”
“You could try saying ‘please’,” suggested Mr Sodbuster.
He’d always regarded Barcla the Hoard as an unmannerly upstart, for all his wealth, but him
being a slug it was not polite to say so.
“Hmm. Who are you?”
“Harold Sodbuster, Chairman of the Parish Council.”
“And who is the highest authority on this planet?”
“Me. We’ve only the one parish.”
“I am here to trade, Harold Sodbuster, Chairman of the Parish Council. I have droids for sale,
weapons, narcotics, and all manner of useful items. What do you require?”
Mr Sodbuster thought for moment.
“Do you have any slug pellets?”
“Nooo!”
After flinching in horror, Barcla, steeled himself.
“But supposing I did. You have money to buy?”
“Oh, yes, we have money.”
“Imperial Credits?”
“Oh no, we’re not allowed them. We’re a Restricted Planet. Actually we should not be trading
off planet at all...”
“Tsch, man, I care not for Imperial regulations. I am a free trader. So you have no Imperial
Credits? Would you like to borrow some?”
14
“What for? Like I said, we’re forbidden to trade off planet.”
“I was thinking of you’re own internal trading. You evidently have your own thriving
community here, although that meeting hall could do with a lick of paint, but you will need
currency if your economy is going to develop, you know?”
“We know, and we’ve just sorted that all out this very afternoon.”
“You have? How? If I may ask?”
“I am not sure that is any of your business.”
“Do not make an enemy of me, Harold Sodbuster. So what have you done, created your own
currency?”
There was no denial.
“So you have. Hmm. Well, I am sorry to have disturbed you, good people of Elysium. I bid you
farewell.”
Barcla the Hoard oozed back up the ramp to his ship, with his menagerie of followers. The door
closed and the ship lifted off up into space.
“Well, fancy that,” mused Mr Sodbuster to those around him. “Who’d have thought I would ever
have found myself in conversation with a slug.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” affirmed Mrs Flowerplucker. “He gave me the creeps, but you
have to admit, he was very well spoken.”
Chapter 5
Mark Skyspotter had run out of the village of Elysium and down to the river. The tears flowed
and he let them come, confident that no one was near to see him. His last ambition was shattered.
What was left for him now but a future of tending verges and spotting the occasional passing
Imperial Patrol Ship? He knew that away off planet and around the galaxy, important things were
happening - major business deals, the establishment of trading monopolies, the creation of whole
new economies.
The fact that his was a Restricted Planet, that no off planet vessels would ever visit them, save
Imperials, had been difficult to reconcile, but he had fostered the ambition to use his knowledge of
economic theory to become the financial power on the planet Elysium, but now even that hope had
been snatched away by Derek Moneypenny’s grotty Toy Town Pounds.
Yet even now a new realisation awoke within him. How could he have achieved his plans on
Elysium when everyone thought of him as a spotty starship spotter? He would need gravitas, an
authoritative presence and a clearer complexion. He would not achieve these for years in the village
of Little Elysium-on-the-Planet. He would need to disappear for a time, to become physically and
mentally stronger, to re-invent himself and so re-emerge as deep and mysterious.
He turned around to stare at the little house that he shared with his Uncle Ewen and Aunt Beryl.
They had cared for him since before he could remember. He was sorry to leave them without a
word, but then had they been more forthcoming about the fate of his parents, maybe he would have
given them more trust. He had always felt like an outsider, now an outsider he would truly become.
He set off into the deepest woodland that he could find. He headed away from Elysium still with
tears in his eyes, and so he failed to spot the starship that came in to land on Elysium’s spacious and
neatly trimmed village green.
On and on, deeper and deeper into the wood he ventured, until he reached territory that had
never yet been explored even by the most intrepid of Elysium’s inhabitants, which was actually not
very far. He was pleased to notice that in some of the more open glades there were new species of
flowers that would make excellent bedding plants...
15
“Oh no!” he cried aloud. “They’ve even got me thinking like a gardener now!”
“Mm, mm,” came a high-pitched strangulated voice from behind him. “Thinking like gardener is
problem, is it?”
Mark spun around and there, sitting upon a log, was an odd little man of pale green colouring
and with enormous pointed ears which drooped.
“Who are you?!” demanded Mark.
“Hmh. Who are you to be demanding who am I? In my land now you are. I it is who should be
demanding who you are and where it is you are going?”
The little man raised his left eye-brow quizzically, which also caused his left ear to rise
somewhat.
“I am Mark Skyspotter. I come from Elysium,” Mark explained.
“Skyspotter. Mmm. Known is the name to me. But asking whence you came I did not. Elysium
only is that possibility. Whither you go is what I wish to know.”
“Nowhere, really. I was just following the river... towards the source, I suppose.”
“What know you of the Source?!”
“The source... It’s where the river begins.”
“Oh, that source. Yes. Yes, it is.”
“There’s another kind of source?”
“Hm. Quick on the uptake, I see you are.”
“Old Mr Grumbleweed often mutters about the Source, like its some kind of power, to be
heedful of, but everyone else just laughs at him and calls him a dotty old man.”
“But interesting you find it yourself, young Mark?”
“Yes, I want to understand the secrets of the galaxy. Doesn’t everyone?”
“Not power?”
“Power?”
“Interested in power are most young men - in wealth, in status, in guns and machines, in having
everyone look up to them when they’re not bowing down before them...”
“Yes, but surely understanding the secrets of the galaxy will give one ultimate power!”
The little man nodded sagely and thoughtfully. The Source, he thought, is very strong in this
one.
“What of your parents, Mark?”
“Both dead, I think. Uncle Ewen and Aunt Beryl say that my mother died giving birth to me, but
their stories differ about my father. It’s like they’re not telling me something. All they tell me is that
he was called Anarkist and that he once worked for the Co-op Mutual Building Society, whatever
that is. Then he started working for himself, got himself an inter-planetary jet-setting lifestyle, then
he had a terrible accident. Uncle Ewen says he’s dead, but Aunt Beryl is not so certain. I don’t think
that they approved of what he did.”
“Much sadness you have, and grief and anger. Natural it is, but dangerous.”
“Dangerous, how?”
“Corrupt you it can, and turn you away from the good that there is in the Source.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand...”
“Of course not, young and ignorant you are, but teach you I can.”
“Teach me? Teach me what?”
“To understand the secrets of the Source. With me you should stay, unless to some lonely
mountain you wish to travel.”
“No. I haven’t anywhere else to go.”
16
Chapter 6
Barcla the Hoard sped off home to his large palace on Tattoo One, whilst away in their remote
corners of the Galaxy, the people of Standardia, Bacchanalia and Elysium got on with their lives,
making flags, drinking beer and gardening.
A few days after his arrival home, Barcla was relaxing in his throne room, surrounded by his
menagerie of acolytes. He was approached by his creepy-looking steward.
“Master, there is a visitor at the gate.”
“A mysterious figure in an enveloping hood?”
“Is there any other kind, Master?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“He says to tell you that ‘Nathan is come’.”
“Nathan?! Fool! Why did you not say so at once?! Bid him enter!”
The hooded figure entered Barcla’s throne room and a hundred eyes of all sizes and species
gazed upon his entrance. He was backed by two henchmen similarly cloaked and, it would be safe
to assume, armed to the teeth and prepared to die in the defence of their leader.
“Master West. You are welcome to my humble abode. Pray, be seated,” cooed the Hoard.
The figure sat, but remained hooded. His guards sat down amongst their host’s followers in such
a way that each could watch the other’s back and both cover their master.
“Refreshments for my honoured guest!” called the host to his servants. “And another giant fly
for myself!”
He turned to the dark robed figure.
“You are well, Nathan?”
The figure nodded slightly.
“You will be pleased to hear, Nathan, that our plans to dominate the galaxy have begun
satisfactorily.”
“Your plans, Barcla.”
“Nathan, you are my oldest and most trusted business partner.”
“You need me because you know that your appearance is so repellent to most sentient beings.”
“Don’t hold back, Nathan, be honest.”
“You are a fat slug, Barcla.”
Barcla looked reprovingly around at his court as if blaming them for not telling him about his
appearance.
“Where is your ambition, Nathan? You and I together can dominate this galaxy. You may be the
front man, I care not.“
“Your plans?”
“Many planets are in a dreadful financial position. The Empire as a whole is in a dreadful
financial position. Planets are in debt, the Imperial government is in debt and charging everyone
else high taxes, corporations are in debt and many individuals are in debt. Everyone is in debt. It is
a frightful mess. You and I, my dear Nathan, should run the Empire.”
“They are in debt to us, Barcla, us and the other Credit Masters, Hoshbacc, Aitchbos, Floyd
Trusab...”
“Exactly! It is absurd to have the galaxy ruled by an Emperor who does not understand the
Source, my dear Nathan. You and I do, as indeed do these others. We should run the Empire, or do
you want to wait until someone else gets the idea?”
“No.”
“Quite. There is talk of rebellion on certain planets. I know, I started it.”
“Most planets could not afford to rebel. As you say, they have no money!”
17
“Unless I agree to extend them some credit, which I have.”
“What? To end up deeper in debt. They’ll still have to pay it back in the long run!”
“Yes, in the long run, but I’ve never met a government yet, rebel, Imperial or otherwise, that is
interested in the long run. In the long run, we are all dead.”
“Who said that?”
“I just did. The point is, are you prepared to finance the Empire when it wants to borrow more?”
“I am not sure that the Empire is interested in increasing its borrowing at the moment...”
“No, but it soon will. When this rebellion breaks out, the Empire will lose the revenues from the
rebel planets and will need to increase its military expenditure. It will have to borrow.”
“Yes, of course... and I have shipyards lying idle.”
“Shipyards?”
“Yes, I acquired them from a defaulting borrower after the last war.”
“I see, so when the Empire borrows credit from you to build them a fleet of Star-cruisers, they
will pay you to build them and then repay you the loan that they borrowed from you pay you for
them?” mused Barcla impressed.
“Yes.”
“And you call me unscrupulous!”
“No. I called you a fat slug, Barcla. So how do we acquire control of the galaxy?”
“Once this rebellion begins, Nathan. Neither side will want to risk defaulting on their loans and
they will be desperate to maintain their credit systems to pay for armaments and personnel. So quite
simply, when they want to borrow, we make it clear what we want them to do, without denying
them the chance to do any actual fighting, of course. As their debt deepens, we gradually buy up
control of their operations in exchange for more credit, and not just the civilian utilities, but
territory, resources, the whole range of government run services, customs services, internal security
services, the penal system, until in the final instance we even buy out their armed forces. Then
when we own everything, we can control everything.
“Now, Nathan, I’ve talked to those plantary governments who are most likely to rebel. You are
close to the Empire. Do we keep it at that or go halves on each other’s portfolios?”
“It might be better if we keep our interests separate, and I rather think that we shall not need a
front man. We do not need an overt presence. All this will work better if people are unaware of
what we are doing. Let them think that their governments still run things, especially those planets
with elected ones. Let me issue and control a nation’s money and I care not who writes its laws.”
“Who said that?”
“I just did.”
“Nathan, you are a man after my own heart! Yes. Now, we should ensure that our lending retains
a rough parity. We do not want one side to gain military superiority over the other. I’ve made an
initial advance to the rebels of five billion. That’ll get them going. Then I won’t lend them any
more until you start lending to the Empire. Agreed?”
“Yes, I agree on that.”
“Good. Here have a fly? Oh no, you don’t, do you? Sorry. Now there is another thing, when this
war does break out, it’s going to get rather hot in various Imperial and rebel planets. Which ones, of
course, it will remain to be seen, so I fancy a nice little hideaway, myself, I don’t know about you.”
“A hideaway?”
“Yes, a cosy little planet well away from things on which to see out the war.”
“But there are no decent planets available. Any that are inhabited by intelligent races are not for
sale, and those that are for sale are either uninhabitable by organic life forms or are just too
underdeveloped to be comfortable.”
“Ah, yes, but my dear Nathan, have you not heard of Restricted Planets?”
18
“Restricted Planets?”
“Yes, peopled by fools and dreamers, largely harmless, but of little use to the Empire. They are
colonising some of the more remote planets of the Outer Rim. It is quite easy to see what the
Empire’s plan is for these. They grant these settlers a lease for, say 99 years, without conceding
ultimate sovereignty, then when the planet is reasonably developed, the Empire moves in and takes
control. The Empire just limits their technology to that which does not give off any sort of radiomagnetic energy which, of course, would be easily detected by Imperial Patrol Ships or monitoring
stations.
“One of these planets, I now have in my power. In six standard years or so, it shall be mine
entirely, and even before that I should start to be able control its affairs. I know of two others of
these Restricted Planets. These ones are proving rather more problematical. I could do with your
advice on dealing with them. In exchange, I shall give you the name of one of them.”
“Only one?”
“How many do you need?”
“How many do you, need?”
“It’s nice to have a spare, just in case.”
Chapter 7
The following year, a small but hyper-space capable starship spun out of the clear blue
Standardian skies and headed for the main settlement, Standardia City. This ‘city’ was clearly
visible by virtue of the profusion of flags that adorned it.
As it appeared and flew down to the open park of the City, the people of Standardia put down
their sewing, their pitchforks and their pens, and all gazed up to watch. The appearance of such a
craft was, of course, expected, and Tex Stardust re-counted the pile of Standardian dollars on the
desk of his Governor’s office.
The craft was different to the one that had arrived the previous year. It was smaller and, if at all
possible, even more ugly. The ramp-door opened and down it walked a two-legged pea-green
coloured creature who was the size of a small man and who possessed a long pointed snout and
large bulbous eyes.
“Howdy,” called Tex. “Er, you’re not who we were expecting.”
“No,” agreed the creature through its electronic translator. “I am Greenboi. Here on behalf of my
Master, Barcla the Hoard.”
“Yeah, that’s who we were expecting.”
“My master is a busy slug. I am here to collect the money. Two hundred Standardian dollars, it is
not?”
“That is correct. Would you like to count it?”
Greenboi thought for a moment.
“Yes. I had better. My master does not like matters of money to be skimped.”
The money, rather worn and well-used as it was in comparison to its crisp newness of the
previous year, was, nevertheless, all there. Greenboi looked about, found himself rather repelled by
the pasty beige colouring of these humans and decided not to accept any invitation for refreshment.
“That there money has been a real boon to us folks of Standardia,” began Tex conversationally.
“Good,” said Greenboi counting the money.
“We’ve got a lot more things than we had before. Folks made things for other folks to buy, who
in turn made other things folks so as they’d have the money to buy the things that they wanted...”
“Yes,” agreed Greenboi, trying not to be distracted.
19
“Yes, a real boon, you will thank your master for us, won’t you?”
“I will. Thank you. It is all correct. Now I must be away. I will see you next year.”
He returned to his ship, which lifted off into the sky, and was last seen as a tiny speck between
the twin suns.
“Not the most sociable of fellows, was he?” mused Jefferson Clintwood.
“No, but I guess he’s just like a bank clerk doing his job,” returned Tex.
Then he paused before continuing.
“He reminds me of the sort of guy who always gets wasted in a movie. The odd-job man, the
messenger, the passer-by, and you never get a chance to wonder whether he has a family who will
grieve over him.”
Next time, resolved Tex Stardust, he would invite the little green guy to lunch.
“Okay, everyone,” he called. “Show’s over. Time to get back to work.”
There was disappointment that the stay of their one visitor all year had been so brief. Folks had
hoped for more to talk about than the brief appearance of one little green man. Next time they
would put on more of a show, and make him feel more welcome.
Even so, they were prospering. More and more land had been placed under cultivation. Children
were growing up. Those who had arrived as adolescents on Standardia were now setting up their
own homesteads, and with a sizeable food surplus produced each year, more and more of the
populace could engage in activities off the land, enabling more different goods and services to be
made available.
Life was good and most were happy to acknowledge that the new money system had enabled
transactions to be undertaken more expeditiously. Also, the Empire had seemingly forgotten about
them. Leastways it left them alone, which was all that the Standardians hoped for.
Chapter 8
At much the same time, across the trackless emptiness of galactic nothingness, the colony of
Bacchanalia was also receiving its second visit. Here there was no expectation of such a return, but
the craft held no surprises as it was the same one that had arrived the previous year. Even so, its
arrival would be the highlight of the year, so most people stopped their work and gathered around
as it came into land. The door opened and out emerged the familiar great slug.
“Greetings, people of this fair land of Bacchanalia,” boomed a self-satisfied Barcla.
“G’day, mate,” returned Howie. “You decided to stop by for a beer after all?”
“I have not, but I have brought something that may interest you.”
A large hatch in the rear of the craft opened. Howie, Brucie and several other guys stepped
forward to gaze inside.
“Streuth, mate! You’ve got enough kit in there to fit out a brewery!” cried Brucie, gazing at the
piles of piping, valves, and tanks. “What is it?”
“It is enough kit to fit out a brewery. I thought you might be interested.”
“You thought right, matey! We keep running out. It’s a hard job to keep up with demand!”
“Strange how beer is regarded as desirable when it has to be paid for,” mused Howie, casting a
knowing glance at Brucie.
“Certainly is, mate!” agreed Brucie. “Its only in order to buy the stuff that half these bastards do
any work!”
Laughter echoed around the group of men there who, hard drinkers and proud of it as they were,
would never have thought that they were work shy drunkards.
“So, you wish to purchase it?”
20
“I certainly do!” affirmed Brucie. “It’ll really get business booming!”
“Then Mr er...”
“Call me Brucie.”
“Then, Brucie, I suggest we retire to a place where we may conduct our business with
discretion.”
Bruce Brewsterson looked around at his friends.
“I think he wants a bit of privacy just now, fellers. But don’t go too far away, I’ll need help to
unload this lot. Then it’s free beer this evening for every man that helps... until it runs out!”
When the others were out of earshot, Barcla spoke in a low undertone.
“The price for this equipment is two hundred Imperial Credits.”
“Two hundred?!”
“You seem surprised?”
“No, no. That’s about right, I guess, for a complete brewery, but I’ve got a bit of a cash-flow
problem right now. I just had to pay out quite a bit for hops and barley. I didn’t realise you were
coming, Barky...”
“You have no means of off planet communication.”
“That’s true enough.”
“But do not worry my friend, I can advance you a loan to cover the cost of it and I can lend you
more.”
“More? I don’t follow.”
“You will need to build a substantial building in which to house this equipment.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“And once erected, it will do no good unless it works to capacity. You will need even more of
whatever you use to make your brew.”
“Hops and barley.”
“Working capital.”
“No, hops and barley, and a bit of yeast, and pure spring water.”
“Working capital is what we businessmen and business-slugs call the money used to buy the
material which, as it were, passes through our particular processes and comes out as profits at the
other end. Once this is all erected, you will be able to produce two thousand litres a day. Think of
the profits on that.“
“Wow! Yeah, streuth!”
“So, I lend you two hundred Imperial Credits as payment for this equipment, another, shall we
say three hundred...” He produced a wad of crisp Imperial Credit Notes. “... for your building and
your working capital. Five hundred Credits in all, at 20% interest for each galactic year...”
“20%?”
“A drop in the bucket of the profits you will make on two thousand litres a day!”
“Yeah, sure! No worries, mate!”
So the deal was made. Brucie called up the guys to help him unload all the gear, and then started
spending some his new money with people who would provide him with building materials, labour
and tools. With new money spreading through Bacchanalia, Barcla the Hoard found himself the
centre of other aspiring purchasers.
“Certainly my friends, on my next visit, I can bring what you will. What would you have?”
“Surf boards!” a number of the newly recruited brewery labourers called out.
“Surf boards?”
“Yeah. What better to go with a few beers? The chance to surf!”
“I don’t remember surfing being a popular activity on Tattoo One.”
“No, but out here we have the freedom to live as we like!”
21
“Surf boards, it will be then. Farewell, good people of Bacchanalia. Enjoy your... enjoy your
drinking!”
“G’day, Barky!”
Chapter 9
It was the day of the Annual Flower and Produce Show in Little Elysium-on-the-Planet. A very
neat and respectable looking starship, that looked like a well-designed spacecraft should look like,
with a pointy bit at the front and some nice big fins at the back, emerged from the low cloud that
hung over the village that day.
The starship naturally excited the interest of the members of the Imperial Starship Spotters’
Club, none of whom had it in their spotting records, nor even in their ABC Guide to Galactic
Hyper-Space Starships (Civilian). The local children also gathered around excitedly. The Old
Tattoonians looked up from their nets practice, whilst the Demons stopped their velocipedes to
watch, but most of the people of Little Elysium were far too concerned as to who would win the
prize for the finest onion to be interested in starships. It would a be close call and so far no one had
been persuaded to act as the judge upon the matter.
Nathan West emerged from his craft, backed up as ever by his two henchmen. Having jumped
halfway across the Galaxy in hyper-drive, he was immediately confronted by a six year old urchin
calmly watching and picking his nose. Older boys scurried about with open note-books and pocket
reference manuals.
“Hey, mister! What kind of ship is this?” called out one.
The hooded figure paused, his head turning ominously towards the spotty youth. He waved a
hand slowly through the air.
“You do not need to know what ship this is.”
“We do not need to know what ship this is...” repeated the youth, “but you could tell us
anyway.”
The hooded figure turned away from the youngsters and, seeing crowds of people in and around
the brightly painted parish hall, made his way towards it. Several people glanced up at the three
figures that walked through the door, but each thought that they had probably come with someone
else, and politely ignored them. It was Harold Sodbuster who first spoke to them.
“Ah, good afternoon, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure...” he began.
“Really?” said the smooth voiced space-traveller. “A man of your age?”
“No. I mean we’ve not met before, have we? I’m Harold Sodbuster, Chairman of the Elysium
Gardening Club and, as it happens, Chairman of the Elysium Parish Council.”
Nathan West had found the man he was seeking.
“I am Nathan West of Western Credit, Inter-planetary trader and financier. You have heard of
Western Credit?”
“Yes, one of the banks on Tattoo One. Pleased to meet you Mr West. And your friends?”
“My companions need no introduction.“
“What, famous are they?”
“No, they are infamous.”
“Oh I see, I think. Well, never mind I am very pleased to meet you and welcome you to our
Flower and Produce Show. Now Mr West, you are just the person I am looking for, you see, I’ve
got a bit of a problem.”
Nathan West was heartily relieved to be able to get down to business so easily. This planet
would be less difficult to secure than Barcla the Hoard had seemed to think.
22
“Yes, you see, we need someone to judge the onions. Someone impartial. I am afraid there’s too
many loyalties and vested interests to get a proper decision. With everything else, its all very
obvious, but I’m afraid the onions are too close to call.”
“I know nothing of onions. I have come to trade.”
“Trade? Oh, what have you got? I must admit we’re very self-sufficient. Mind you, as we are
forbidden by the Empire to trade off planet, we have to be. We’re a Restricted Planet, I’m afraid,
Mr West.”
“I bring you slug pellets.”
“Slug pellets! Now you’re talking. Do let me get you a nice cup of tea!”
Over a nice cup of tea, they discussed slug pellets, then Nathan West was persuaded to judge the
onions.
“Its a matter of taste, you see,” explained Harold Sodbuster. “Taste and texture and general
quality.”
Nathan tried a first piece of onion, and declared that such an onion would be delicious if pickled.
The second, he determined would be excellent fried, and the third would make a perfect onion soup.
This result delighted the watching crowd who all agreed that Mr West was a thoroughly nice man
who certainly knew his onions.
Thereafter, business was transacted. A large sack of slug pellets was removed from the hold of
his starship and he received in exchange a very modest sum of Toy Town Pounds.
This was quite normal for the people of Elysium who worked for them, spent them and valued
them as money was valued around the galaxy. None thought to wonder why someone like Nathan
West would be happy with his side of the bargain.
Mr Sodbuster, perhaps feeling a certain sense of obligation to their benefactor, invited West to
stay the night. He agreed to do so. He shut down his ship’s systems to their lowest possible level of
activity to reduce the chance of any passing Imperial Patrol Ships detecting its presence and with
his two shrouded attendants made his way to the Sodbuster’s cottage with its roses around the door.
“It must be a great inconvenience, this technological limitation,” mused Nathan that evening as
he joined Mr and Mrs Sodbuster for a nice cup of tea.
“We get used to it. It’s actually quite nice in a way. There’s no noisy machines for one thing, but
there is something I do miss from Tattoo One.”
“There is?” Nathan was interested.
“Our teasmade.”
“Teasmade?”
“Yes. There’s nothing better than waking up to a nice cup of tea all freshly brewed. But, of
course, we’ve no electricity, have we?”
West thought for a while.
“I have heard that there is such a thing as a solar-powered teasmade,” he remarked.
“Is there? Now, that is a good idea. Never mind your hyper-drives that whisk you across the
galaxy in hours, a solar-powered teasmade is the very essence of civilisation. Mind you. I dare say
even they give off a certain amount of radio-activity or whatever it is that the Imperials would be
likely to detect.”
“Not the panels, and providing you keep the rest indoors, it should not be detectable.”
“Really? Well, I wonder... you couldn’t... bring one on your next visit? No, bring several, I am
sure that there’d be a demand.”
“And more slug pellets?”
“Always very welcome.”
“But please allow me to ask, Mr Sodbuster, if I accept your currency in payment for these items,
how sound a currency is it?”
23
“Sound?”
“Mm. For example, money that is printed off like there is no tomorrow is very unsound.”
“Oh no. We’ve deliberately limited the supply, in order to keep its value, otherwise... otherwise,
as you say, it just gets out of hand. And Derek Moneypenny does a very good job in regulating its
issue.”
“Good. I am pleased to hear it.”
Night-time was an even quieter time on Elysium than the daytime. Even the Valhades Demons,
lacking lights for their velocipedes, would be tucked up in bed come the witching hour, and as for
the Imperial Starship Spotters, that was well past their bed-time.
Nathan West slipped out of his hosts’ house and moved with habitual ease though the near total
darkness to the house of Derek Moneypenny. It was not locked, as neither had been the
Sodbusters’. As for Nathan’s target, that was easily found. It was the only cupboard in the
Moneypenny house that was locked. This was overcome with a simple sonic picklock, and there
was the strong box, secured with its three padlocks. These also offered no challenge to the sonic
picklock, and soon Nathan West had all the money wealth of Elysium’s Parish Council, the total
planet’s currency reserve, in his hands.
He recognised it as being the same toy currency he had played with himself years ago as a child.
So this was it, this was all that they relied upon as their money system.
He counted it quickly, made a mental note of the amount, then noticed a large ledger upon which
the box had been resting. His hopes were raised and, upon scrutinising the first page, totally
realised.
Here was the record of those sums that had been paid out to those Elysians who had undertaken
work for the council. Also recorded were those sums earnt by the council, largely through the hiring
out of the parish hall for parties and weddings. It showed quite clearly the total sum of money upon
which the viability of the Elysian economy rested.
It was not, he was pleased to note, very much. It would not take many sacks of slug pellets or
solar-powered teasmades to eradicate their currency from existence.
He carefully replaced currency, ledger and strongbox back in their original positions. The
thought occurred that if he took the money now, he would wipe them out sooner. But no, he
decided, the suspicion would fall too easily upon him and his plan would be lost.
His role was to be that of the trustworthy business partner. It would only take a few years.
His departure the following day coincided with neither the Annual Gardening Show nor nets
practice, so quite a crowd of Elysians gathered to see him off, and to place with him their orders for
solar-powered teasmades. As he blasted off, he left behind him a large number of the citizenry keen
to undertake public works in order to earn sufficient money to pay for their new teasmades, when
next he visited.
The Valhades Demons were something of an exception as their request for speeder bikes had
been turned down by the Parish Council on the grounds that they could not be kept hidden from
Imperial detection.
Chapter 10
A few hours walk upstream from Little Elysium-on-the-Planet, Mark Skyspotter sat cross-legged
before his teacher.
“What I have I to learn today, master? You said that you would tell me about the Source, yet it
has been a year now and still you have not explained it.”
24
“Walk before run must you. Crawl before you walk. Everything in its time. Many are those who
a fast route to the Source would have. Disaster that way lies. War, corruption, slavery, all the evil
things of the galaxy come from those who would rush to the Source, would have its power without
understanding.”
The little man allowed a quiet, thoughtful and respectful hush to descend before continuing.
“But, patient you have been. Tell you I will of a young man like yourself. A dutiful citizen of the
old Galactic Union he was. Diligent and reliable. A great man he would have been, for clever he
was, quick and sharp. But ambitious he was. Power he sought, more power than he could control.
Control himself now his lust for power does. Helpless like a stick in a stream he is. His own life
controls he no longer. Yet great is he. Many are they who look to him for example, would be like
him, not understanding that he no longer controls himself.”
“Who is this man, master?”
“Name him I will not, but great in the Empire he is.”
“Is he... is he the Lord Bader?!”
“No. Powerful I said he was. Fully understanding yet, you do not. Teach you more I must. Tell
me, young Mark, of the Credit Masters have you heard?”
“The Credit Masters? Yes, but I do not know who they were. They disappeared long ago, I
heard.”
“Yes, long ago. Controlled the galaxy’s financial affairs they did. Long before the Empire. Ran
the Co-op Mutual Building Society they did, and at peace was the galaxy. But learnt the secret of
the Source they did, without fully understanding, and turned did they to the dark side. Ambition
kindled in the hearts of some the cause of de-regulation.”
“De-regulation?”
“Mm. Loans no longer tied to deposits were permitted. Credit created out of nothing was there.
Loans made out to irresponsible borrowers the norm became. Debts mounted, and stalked the
galaxy did fear and envy. Began did the Drone Wars, as poorer planets over resources fought.
Quick and easy was the power for those Credit Masters who abandoned the Co-op Mutual Building
Society and to the dark side of the Source turned.”
“Was my father a Credit Master?”
The little man thought deeply.
“Trained with me did he. Knowledgeable he was, but... betrayed he was by a powerful Credit
Master. Nathan West was he.”
“Nathan West?”
“Of Western Credit. Great finance house is that.”
“But you, Master, you stayed true to the enlightened side of the Source?”
“I did.”
“And now you live in this grotty little hut in the woods.”
“Pure am I.”
“Yes.”
“Learn from this, I hope you will.”
“Oh yes, master.”
Chapter 11
The day of the expected visit from space was turned into something of a gala on Standardia, but
then anything was turned into a gala upon the least pretext - youngsters graduating from school
having mastered the ability to tie their shoe-laces, the election of a dog-warden, the election of a
25
cat-warden (to avoid discrimination) or the opening of a new inter-farm dual-carriage highway to
connect the growing number of farmsteads.
Expansion had been a goal of the Standardians from the day they had first arrived. Nor was there
any doubt as to which way they should go. They were still trying to expand, but they seemed
hampered, not by labour or land or know-how, there just did not seem to be enough money about to
enable everyone to do what he or she wanted.
“Westward!” was the cry on everyone lips. “Towards the setting suns. Let us always by heading
into the sunsets!”
When one young man suggested that eastward might also be a good direction to go, he was
shouted down by an appalled multitude.
“Listen, son,” one old-timer warned him, “us here are all independent free-thinkers, don’t none
of us like folks as goes against the grain!”
Another difference of opinion was also being voiced.
“I don’t understand it, Tex. This last year, I ain’t been able to do as much as I planned.”
“I know, Jeff. I reckon its all these folks as is headed west.”
“Mm. I ain’t so sure, Tex. They is buying up all the horses and wagons and tools and seed corn
and cattle they can, seems to me like it’s only them as is keeping the rest of us in business.”
“Yeah, well that’s something we can discuss with the little green feller. Get his opinion on
things.”
Yet the starship that landed was not the one from the previous year, but the one from year before
that, the one that looked like a flying slug.
“Guess it’s the slug again,” remarked Jeff.
It was the slug again, and Barcla the Hoard oozed his way down the ramp of his craft, his voice
booming out is beneficent greetings. He slithered up to the table, set before the Governor’s house,
upon which rested a neat if rather shabby pile of Standardian dollar bills.
“Your interest, Mr Barcla, sir,” said Tex gesturing towards the pile.
Barcla coughed and one of his minions, a little creature that resembled a bipedal terrier scurried
up and counted it. Satisfied, the little creature looked up at his master and nodded.
“Good,” murmured Barcla. Then he turned to Tex.
“I see that Standardia City is flourishing, Governor Stardust. New farmsteads, new roads, more
land under cultivation, more... er, flags.”
“Yes, we are doing well enough, I guess, but there’s still a lot of hold-ups...”
“Hold ups?”
“Yes, people want things doing, and some folks have time enough to help out, but we kinda have
to wait for one job to get finished and paid for before we can move on to the next.”
Barcla the Hoard laughed.
“But, of course, Governor, did I not say that you will need more money to maintain activity as
your economy grows and develops?”
“Yeah, now you come to mention it, you did.”
“There you are then!”
“Yeah, I guess, and you said that if ever we’d need more money, we’d only got to ask. Does that
still hold?”
“My dear fellow, of course! How much more do you need?”
Barcla the Hoard had thought about the likelihood of a request for a further loan. It would mean
that the day when he secured control over the planet would be delayed by a few years, but it would
mean that when he did, it would be even more highly developed. Once they finally became his debtslaves, they might prove to be troublesome and intractable. Far better if they were allowed to
26
develop the delusion that they were working for their own well-being, as they would work all the
harder.
“Well, I ain’t too sure, Mr Barcla, sir.”
“Do you think that another thousand would be sufficient?”
“Another whole thousand? Are you sure, sir?”
“Think of the future, Governor, your continued growth and expansion!”
“Yessirree. We’re going west, Mr Barcla, sir!”
“You certainly are, Governor, you certainly are!”
Chapter 12
Across the Galaxy, Greenboi was visiting the other of his master’s intended dominions. The hold
of his small craft was packed out with surf-boards in a range of bright colours. Some even had three
fins on them.
His instructions were simply to collect 100 Imperial Credits from the human called Bruce
Brewsterson as interest on his loan, to sell off the surf-boards at whatever the natives thought was a
fair dinkum price and then to discover by whatever means in his power just how many Imperial
Credits the Bacchanalians possessed between them, indeed to discover whatever he could about the
nature of the Bacchanalian economy.
Barcla the Hoard had come to the conclusion that such an exercise would very likely involve the
consumption of beer, which was not something he would be able to undertake himself.
A large proportion of the population of Bacchanalia were enjoying a few drinks in Brucie’s Bar,
when Sheila Diggerdigger walked in.
“Looks like we got visitors, fellers,” she warned them.
“Not Imperials!” called Brucie in alarm.
“Don’t know who else it could be. You expecting visitors?”
“Don’t be daft, Sheil,” responded Howie. “This is Bacchanalia. No one ever comes here!”
“Did last year,” Brucie reminded them. “Hey, yeah, that’s it! I’m expecting a visitor, but hide
your Credits just in case, guys.”
He snatched up the box that held his takings and hurried off to both hide it and to check that he
had the 100 Credits that he needed to pay the interest to the fat slug who had called before. He had
the money and to spare. He had nearly half of all the money in Bacchanalia in his cash box.
“Does it look like last year’s ship?” he called out to no one in particular.
“Don’t think so. It’s smaller and weirder. Doesn’t look like an Imperial, though. No worries,
mate.”
Greenboi had experienced many cultures and many receptions from many different creatures in
his years of working for Barcla the Hoard, but Bacchanalia took the prize for sheer informality.
“Hey, look! It’s a little green fellow! G’day, little green feller, come and have a beer.”
“He ain’t green, more blue than green, I reckon.”
Greenboi approached the bar cautiously.
“Greetings, people of Bacchanalia. I come on behalf of my master, Barcla the Hoard. I seek one
who is known as Bruce the Brewsterson.”
“Well, you found him, mate. This here’s Brucie’s Bar, which is Brucie’s bar.”
“Say, are you green or blue?” asked Dewie.
“It depends on the light,” replied Greenboi politely.
“Well, I reckon you’re blue. I’m gonna call you ‘Blue’, ” declared Dewie.
“G’day, Blue, I’m Bruce Brewsterson. Call me Brucie”
27
“Greetings, Bruce Brewsterson. Call me Greenboi.”
“Oh, come on, Blue, let’s just stick to the one name here, or things’ll get really confused,” cried
Dewie.
“Don’t mind him, Greenie, me ol’ mate. He’s just had a few drinks. Come out the back, and
we’ll sort out the business where it’s quiet,” said Brucie, ushering his visitor through the swaying
throng. “Here, have a beer. On the house.”
Greenboi looked up to see where the beer might be on the roof, then found one thrust into his
hand. He sipped it politely. He tried to formulate a response that was both honest and respectful.
The word ‘interesting’ was the one that finally emerged from his electronic chest translator.
“Yeah,” agreed Brucie. “It’s not as good as it should be. Can’t get it cold enough. Any chance
you could supply us with a refrigeration system? It should be so cold you can’t actually taste it.”
Yes, thought Greenboi, that would improve it enormously. He counted the money and assured
Brucie that he would pass on his request to Barcla the Hoard, who would, without doubt, consider
his request favourably.
“Ah well, I guess that’s business dealt with,” declared Brucie. “Time for another beer!”
“Not yet,” countered Greenboi. “I have things for sale.”
“What’s that then, Greenie?”
“I believe they were ordered last year.”
“Maybe so, feller, but last year was last year. Hell, I have trouble remembering last night most
days. Whatcha got?”
“To me, they each look like a rankled monster’s tongue depressors, but I understand that you
will value them greatly.”
“Well, lead on, Greenie. Let’s take a look.”
As Greenboi led the way out to his ship, not only Brucie, but most of his customers followed him
to see what the little blue-green visitor had to sell.
“Surf-boards!” they all cried when the ship’s hold was opened.
“Hey, Blue, that’s wonderful. How did you know we’d be interested in surf-boards?”
“You informed my master.”
“We did? Oh, right. Still, look had these beautes, fellers!”
“Hey, Blue, you want to sell any of these?”
“Of course.”
So the deals were done and almost all of those who wanted to buy one and could afford to do so,
put up his money. It was all in crisp Imperial Credit notes Greenboi noted. Each Bacchanalian surfboy took away his new pride and joy, but soon they were all back at the bar, where, with their new
boon companion, they settled to the day’s serious business.
“So Blue, tell us, mate, exactly what shade of blue is that.”
“He ain’t blue. He’s green, I tell you.”
“I’d have said he was turquoise,” suggested a new voice.
“Turquoise? Where’d you pick up that kind of language. You some kind of poofter?”
“So Blue, what’s yah name really, then?”
“Its Greenie,” explained Brucie.
“Told you he was green.”
“But if you’re green, Greenie, how do you know when you’ve had enough to drink? All these
fellers go green when they’re pissed, right mates?”
“Oh, leave the poor feller alone, Stewie. You’re going green yourself. Don’t you worry about
him, Blue, my little ol’ green matey. You’re a bonza feller. Have another beer.”
Greenboi sat through all the banter around him. Half of it was untranslatable anyway, whilst
much that was not, was not for tender ears. He drank. Enough to be sociable, although hardly for
28
pleasure, insufficient to prevent his third task from being successfully completed. As more and
more of the bar’s floor became carpeted with sleeping Bacchanalians, he found himself alone with
Brucie Brewsterson.
“Business is booming, Brucie Brewsterson?”
“You can say that again, me ol’ green matey, an’ its all down to your master, Barky the Hoardy.
What a bonza feller. Here’s to him, an’ all as sails in him!”
“Profits are good?”
“I’ll say they are. D’you know... now, nobody else knows this, right? But I have now got about
half of all the money in Bacchanalia. I know how much that is ’cos our sheilas, right, get this, our
sheilas each hid some up their you-know-whats to hide it from the Imperials when we come here!”
“How much is that?”
“What? How much I got? It’s nearly five hundred Credits, mate! Here, I’ve just thought, I could
pay you back s’more of the loan. Four hundred at least.”
“It is not necessary,” Greenboi assured him.
“Yeah, but I better had. Another four hundred smackers, so I only owe one hundred, s’right?”
“You are a rich man, Bruce Brewsterson.”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Mm. So life is good?”
“Life is absolutely sodding perfect, mate, now we got them surf-boards... Yeah... All we got to
do now is find out where the sea is.”
Chapter 13
Life on Elysium was also flourishing, particularly so now that the slug problem was firmly under
control, and the produce that was displayed at the 2nd Annual Flower and Produce Show was even
more splendid than that that had been seen the year before. Even so, Nathan West made sure that
his arrival did not coincide with the Show itself. He was not sure that he could pull off the same
trick twice with the onions. Very likely he would declare that those he had previously declared best
pickled would make the best soup, and so on, and he would be derided as a man who did not know
his onions.
His arrival was warmly greeted by rather more of the adult members of the population on this
second occasion. They recognised his ship, rather than himself, for he remained hooded along with
his companions, but he was hailed as the nice gentleman who had called the year before.
Some may have wondered as to his preference for keeping his face in shadow and speculated as
to the reason - a nasty birth-mark, an accident, an aversion to sunlight, perhaps - but most Elysians,
being private people themselves, happily accepted that he was perhaps a little shy, and amidst all
these strangers, it must be difficult for the poor love.
His welcome was made all the more warmer when he brought out the sacks of slug pellets and a
collection of shiny new solar-powered teasmades. He was prevailed upon to demonstrate how the
teasmades could be installed so that their working parts would be undetectable to passing Imperial
Patrol Ships, and then with wads of Toy Town Pounds carefully tucked away, he was invited to Mrs
and Mrs Sodbuster’s home for a nice cup of tea, made, they proudly declared, with their newly
installed teasmade.
After tea, Mrs Sodbuster asked his guest whether he might care to join him in a walk around the
village of Little Elysium-on-the-Planet and Nathan was nothing loath. After all, he reasoned, if all
went to plan, the planet would effectively be his in a few year’s time.
29
Besides the well trimmed verges, he was pleased to see that the public buildings, the parish hall,
the school and the medical centre were all well built and carefully maintained, the roads were free
from pot holes and the bridge over the river was stout enough to withstand the strongest of floods.
“Of course, there’s a lot more to see outside the village itself,” explained Harold Sodbuster.
“Farms and tea plantations and managed woodlands, as well as the mill, the forge, the fishery and
the weaving shop. Proper little hive of industry it is, Mr West. We’re even thinking of building a
road down to the sea, which is not so far away. It’s over that hill actually. The river goes the long
way around.”
Nathan decided not to tell Mr Sodbuster that he had done a complete survey of the planet from
space and knew far more about its geography than Sodbuster was ever likely to. It might seem
rather too proprietorial were he to do so. Instead, he was rather pleased to see that a population that
he was beginning to regard as his people was taking such good care of what he was beginning to
think of as his property. He bid his host farewell with the promise of more slug pellets the following
year.
Yet all was not so well in Little Elysium as it seemed on the surface. That evening, a worried
Derek Moneypenny called an emergency meeting with Harold Sodbuster and Ewen Skyspotter.
“So why do you want to meet just us, Derek?” asked a puzzled Chairman of the Parish Council.
“If it’s important, shouldn’t we have all the Parish Council here?”
“What I have to say is a matter of great importance, but it is also a matter for subtlety and
discretion. I know you gentlemen to be the most reliable and...” He sought a suitable word.
“...unruffled members of this community. Many others will misunderstand things and get panicky
and worried.”
“What is it, Derek?” asked Mr Sodbuster, somewhat alarmed at the notion there was something
over which anyone might have cause to panic, and rather put out by Derek Moneypenny’s
patronising tone.
“The bare fact is, gentlemen, that our money supply is running dangerously low.”
“What, for the Parish Council?”
“For the Parish council and the rest of Elysium as a whole.”
“I don’t follow, Derek.”
“When we set up our money system, we had a limited amount of Toy Town bank notes.”
“Yes. Limit the supply to maintain the value, you said.”
“Exactly. Well, the supply is a lot more limited, now that Mr West has taken so many of them
for those teasmades and the slug pellets.”
“Is that a problem? It just makes them more valuable surely.”
“Yes, but a sufficient number is required, otherwise we will get log jams in the economy. When
there is sufficient money, people will have money to spend whilst they themselves are earning, and
in spending money themselves other people will be able to earn. D’you see?”
“Yes.”
“But, if there’s insufficient money, people who haven’t got any money will not be able to spend
it until they’ve earnt it, so the people who they would want to spent it with won’t be able to earn it
themselves until such time as the first people have earnt it and then start to spend it.”
“Is that what’s called a recession?”
“Exactly, a slow down of economic activity, which will make us all worse off.”
“Yes, I see, Derek. You did well to tell just us. What do you think, Ewen?”
“The obvious thing is to print off some more Toy Town bank notes.”
“We can’t. We can’t make paper of that quality nor print anything of that standard.”
“Does that matter?”
30
“If people start getting notes that are not proper Toy Town pound notes they will think that
something funny is going on. That was the whole point, they are not easily reproduced, not with our
limited technology.”
“How much do we have in the Council strong box?”
“A little under three hundred pounds.”
“And how much in circulation?”
“Given the amounts that Nathaniel West has taken, I’d say less than two hundred pounds. And
that’s another strange thing,” continued Derek. “Have you stopped to ask yourself why a galactic
trader like him wants Toy Town pounds?”
“Because it’s a sound currency!” asserted a proud Chairman of the Parish Council.
“Yes, but only on Elysium. He can only spend that money on Elysium, but he doesn’t.”
“I know why he wants them,” came from a voice by the door.
“Who’s that!” cried Harold. “Come on, show yourself!”
A hooded figure stepped forward into the hall and for a brief moment, Harold thought that it was
Nathan West himself returned. Instead, it was Ewen Skyspotter who recognised the figure.
“Mark? Is that you?”
“It is I, Uncle.”
“Then let us see you, my boy. Are you well? Your Aunt Beryl and I were worried. We thought
you’d return after a few days and then when you didn’t, we thought you’d... We did not know what
to think or where to look.”
“I disappeared like my father. Like father like son.”
Mark pulled down his hood and the three village elders saw before them, not the spotty youth of
before, but a tall confident young man. There was the gleam of maturity in his eye and dimple in his
cheek.
“Did you hear every word that we said?” asked Harold Sodbuster.
“Every word since you entered this room.”
“You were spying on us!”
“Yes, in a way I was.”
“What for, you young rascal?”
“And why do you chance to return, just now, Mark?” asked his Uncle.
Mark laughed a little.
“I saw the ship come in. I hoped for a lift.”
“To leave us?”
“I thought that I had already left you, but it seems that not only has my chance to leave gone, but
my reason to stay has arrived.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like I said, I know why West wants your worthless bits of paper.”
“Don’t start that again!”
“No, forgive me. I meant worthless to him, off this planet. They are, I realise now, a valuable
entity on Elysium.”
“So?”
“West expects to return next year to find the economy in difficulties, as Moneypenny says. He
will then offer to lend you money, either the very Toy Town pounds that he has taken from you or
Imperial Credits. Which, matters not to him.”
“We are forbidden Imperial Credits!”
“So you will take the Toy Town pounds. At a rate of interest, of course, and he will sell you
more of whatever it is he can sell to you.”
“Slug pellets.”
31
“Teasmades.”
“Whatever. In a matter of a few years, not only will you have run out of money, Toy Town
pounds or Imperial Credits, but you will be in debt to West with no means of ever repaying it.
Nathan West is a very rich man, he has many friends and associates within the Imperial
bureaucracy. He is a trader and a financier, but one thing he has yet to acquire is a planet, because
inhabited planets are not for sale and uninhabited planets are useless.”
“What do you mean?”
“When his plan comes to fruition, you will be his slaves, his willing slaves, forever worrying
about the debts you owe him.”
“We’ll see about that! Right, there’ll be no more trading with that there Nathan West!”
“Right!”
“Yes, but that still leaves us with the problem of the shortage of money,” wailed Derek
Moneypenny.
“You open a bank,” continued the placid Mark Skyspotter, seemingly without pause. “The Bank
of Elysium, an institution wholly owned by the people of Elysium and controlled by nominees from
the Elysium Parish Council. You invite people to place their savings in the bank. Some people still
have some money, I gather?”
“Some do, yes.”
“Good. So you create two separate sides to the bank. One side is for individual accounts, for
those who wish to save and those who wish to borrow those savings. People may borrow for their
own purposes, a new house, a new workshop, a new velocipede or whatever. They can borrow
money from the bank at a modest rate of interest, say 5%. No more money can be lent out than
exists in that fund as savings. Anyone who opens an account receives a cheque book. We can print
those I take it, Uncle?”
“Yes, Mark.”
“People will get used to paying money in and drawing it out of an account by means of cheques,
so the Parish Council will be able to spend its money in the form of cheques.”
“Right, but only up to the amount still left in the kitty, I take it?”
“No. As I said, there will be two sides to the bank. The second side will create money on behalf
of the Parish Council, and will spend it in the form of cheques which everyone will be happy to
accept. Most of the cash that you still have left can be spent into the community to circulate as
‘small change’ as it were.”
“But don’t we need to have enough money in the bank to correspond to the amount that people
have saved with us?”
“No.”
“So the Parish Council can spend as much as it likes?”
“No, the Parish Council should only spend when it gets good value for its money, and it should
only spend money on capital projects that will benefit the community, a new building or road, say.
Everyday running costs of council services will have to be paid for out of taxation, and if
councillors think that they can claim large expenses, the system will collapse.”
“I wouldn’t dream of claiming large expenses. I don’t claim any expenses at all, young man!”
“Good. Just don’t let it happen.”
“I’m sorry, Mark. I’m still not sure how much money we can create with this new banking idea
of yours?”
“As much as Elysium needs. Just remember that when it is being created, to pay for public
expenditure, it must bear no interest, and only that money which, as it were, has been previously
created and then deposited back with the bank as savings can be lent out to borrowers at a rate of
interest.”
32
“Why?” asked a puzzled Derek, who thought he knew a thing or two about money matters.
“Because, if you have a system wherein money bears a rate of interest when it is created, you
will find yourself in the position that you would have been in had you allowed Nathan West to lend
you money. If your money supply bears a charge of interest at its initial creation, you have a debt
you can never clear.”
“Why not?”
“Because the amount of money needed to clear an interest-bearing debt is always greater than
the initial debt itself, and if all your money is created as an interest-bearing debt, you will never
have enough to clear it, because the amount you need to clear it will always be greater than the
amount you have!”
“I see, yes, I do see,” said Derek. “By heck. We might well have borrowed from that Nathan
West. He seemed such a nice man.”
He sat down to take the weight off his feet.
“He knew his onions, at least,” confirmed Harold Sodbuster.
Ewen gazed with renewed pride at his nephew.
“So where and how did you learn all this new economic theory, Mark?”
“It is actually not economics, Uncle. It is really just simple mathematics. If you borrow 100% of
your total money supply, and 105% is the amount to be repaid, with a rate of interest at 5%, then
you will need 105% of your total money supply to repay it, which is, of course, an impossible
amount.”
“I know what I need now,” muttered a rather tired Chairman of the Parish Council. “A nice cup
of tea. Why don’t we all go back to my place?”
“No,“ said Ewen. “Why don’t we all go to my place? There’s a young man here who’s aunt is
still worrying about him.”
Chapter 14
Tammy Woodsawyer lay on her hammock in the shade. She was busy. Officially, she was busy
white-washing a neighbour’s fence. Actually, she was thinking. She did a lot of thinking. The
trouble was, thinking is best done lying on a hammock, but lying on a hammock did not count as
work in the Great Society of Standardia.
Yet, she did not care. For one thing the subject upon which her thoughts dwelt was so serious,
that considerations such as getting a scolding for being a lazy good-for-nothing held no fears for
her, and for a second thing, her neighbours would indeed get their fence white-washed, and in
double-quick time.
She had been offered two dollars for the job and as soon as she had the contract, she advertised
amongst all the youngsters of the neighbourhood a wonderful new competition. The competition
was to see who could white-wash a given section of fence the fastest. Entry was one dollar; the
prize was five. As soon as she got eight players, which was as many as the fence could reasonably
accommodate, the competition started and Tammy retired to her hammock to supervise and to
think. Sure, she’d have to finish the bits left by the losers, but that would be far less than five
dollars worth. Besides, she really needed to think.
With a scrap of paper in one hand and a stub of pencil in the other, she made a series of
calculations, but try as she might, she could never overcome a serious stumbling block. She
checked her calculations, and then re-checked them There was no doubt in her mind. Standardia
was in big trouble.
“I’ve won!” came a cry from the fence.
33
Tammy eased herself off the hammock and walked over to check the claimant’s handy work.
“Nope. You missed a bit,” she judged.
“Oh, hell!”
“Hey, Tammy, I reckon I’ve won,” called a second claimant.
Tammy scrutinised the declared panel, pausing to give time to allow the others to continue,
which they did with an increased frenzy.
“Yes, I guess you have,” she said at length.
She handed over the five dollars prize to the winner, and with that the remaining players dropped
their brushes. They drifted off, surrounding and reconfirming their individual friendships with the
winner.
“Oh, heck,” cried the first claimant, watching them go. “I didn’t need to lose that dollar. I
thought I’d be bound to win.”
“Never mind, Mike. Here, if you finish the rest of the fence, I‘ll pay you back your dollar.”
“Oh great, Tam. That’s swell of you!”
“And you can clean the brushes afterwards!”
Her white-washing concerns finished, Tammy re-checked her calculations and walked along the
road to the Governor’s house. She set off in a confident frame of mind, but as the impressive
mansion that was the Governor’s official residence loomed larger in her vision, doubts began to set
in. If it was so obvious to her, why could no one else see the problem? No, she reminded herself, it
was only obvious to her because she had been thinking about it. Yet, Miss Chalkdust, the school
mistress, had shown no concern when Tammy had explained it to her, but then Miss Chalkdust said
that economics wasn’t something she knew anything about, and her mother had just told her to get
on with her chores and stop worrying about things that didn’t concern her, but then her mom was
worried that if Tammy got a reputation for just lazing about in her hammock, she’d never get a
husband, and would probably end up as some frigid old maid like Miss Chalkdust.
Eventually, Tammy arrived at the Governor’s house. Mrs Stardust, the Governor’s wife, was
busy applying some white-wash to the front picket fence. Keeping that picket fence and the flag
pole a pristine white was, it sometimes seemed to Tammy, Mrs Stardust’s sole preoccupations.
“Oh, how you doing, Tammy?” called the woman, standing up to greet her young visitor.
“I’m doing fine. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Say, you wouldn’t like to earn yourself a dollar by finishing off this fence would you?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I’d like to see the Governor, if that’s all the same.”
“Sure, Tammy, his office is always open to any citizen of Standardia.”
Mrs Stardust made the phrase sound like a carefully rehearsed campaign slogan.
“He’s in his office right now, doing some work with that... intern of his.”
Tammy walked through the house and knocked loudly on the door bearing a brass plate which
read ‘Governor’s Office’. She pushed open the door as the summons to enter was uttered.
Behind the desk, the Governor was straightening his tie. Standing at his side, Mona Lustbather
smoothed the creases from her tight dress.
Mona Lustbather was tall, curvaceous, devastatingly good-looking and, in Tammy’s entirely
prejudiced opinion, quite the dumbest creature ever to inhabit a Governor’s office... or maybe not,
she thought on further reflection.
“Hiya, Tammy, come on in. You know Mona, of course?”
The two young women smiled glaringly at each other.
“Take a seat. How can I help you?”
Tammy sat down. She glanced at the paper in her hand that was now rather crushed and a tad
sweaty.
34
“Well Mr Governor, sir, its like this. I’m, er, well, the thing is, sir... I’m worried about the
economy.”
“The economy, Tammy?”
“Yessir.”
“You don’t need to worry about the economy, Tammy. Everything is just fine.”
And indeed, everything in Standardia was better than ever. Money was in good supply, every
one who wanted to work had work. Houses were being built, new horse-buggies were being bought,
new farm-buildings and workshops were being erected and more and more new consumer goods
were appearing in the increasing number of shops that were opening. Also, taxes were low. They
had gone up the year before to pay for more deputies to deal with the problems of the work-less and
money-less, but there were few enough of them now. Just one or two drunken bums to act as a
lesson to the rest of the population.
Apart from the Sheriff’s office, the Judge’s office and the Governor’s office, the only other
major public expenditure was on the increasing number of dual carriageway tracks that were being
opened up, mostly in a westwards direction. The medical center and school-house were doing well,
but they were entirely private institutions. Of course, if was a shame that not all the citizens of
Standardia could afford to use them, but that was the way of the world, the way that the Source
made things work.
Although precisely how the Source made things work was a matter for, at times, fierce debate,
everybody held themselves to be honest-to-goodness Source fearing folk. They were independent
free-thinkers and the Source was with them.
Governor Tex Stardust was a happy man. He was due for re-election in a few months time, but
with things booming as they were, he had no doubts as to the outcome. He beamed magnanimously
at the young woman before him and calculated that with the forthcoming election, she’d be voting
for the very first time.
“Say, Tammy, why not ask Mrs Stardust for some cookies on the way out?”
Tammy bridled.
“I am not here to bum cookies!”
“Whoa there, Tammy girl. No need to get riled.”
“I have been studying the figures, Mr Governor.”
“Oh, have you now?”
He was about say something about betting that the figures were not the sort he was wont to
study, but realising he was in female company, he stopped himself in time.
“What figures, might these be?” he managed instead.
“The money supply figures.”
“The money supply figures?”
“Yes. From what I gather from my uncle and Miss Chalkdust, Standardia has borrowed two
thousand dollars from Barcla the Hoard. Is that correct?”
“Well, let me see, now. We borrowed a thousand first off, then another thousand a couple of
years later... yeah.”
“At 20% interest?”
“Yeah, which is kinda steep, but we can afford it, the economy is growing really fast.”
“The size of the economy is not the issue, nor its rate of growth. The issue is the origin of the
money supply.”
“I don’t follow you, honey. Surely the amount of money is determined by the size of the
economy?”
He glanced up at Mona Lustbather for assurance, but she returned his quizzical gaze with a look
of complete incomprehension. She had lost the plot since the word ‘interest’ was mentioned.
35
“No. The size of the money supply is not determined by the size of the economy,” stated Tammy
“But surely, an economy needs a certain amount of money. Too much and you get inflation, too
little and you get stagnation. Like we had before we got that last thousand. Now we got just about
enough.”
“Yes, enough is what you need, but as I said, the size of the money supply is not determined by
the size of the economy.”
“Surely it must?”
“No. The supply of money is a wholly independent operation. Money is fed into an economy. It
is not created by it. As an economy grows, like you say it is doing, there will be a need to feed more
in.”
“Of course,” said the Governor, controlling his annoyance.
“We are agreed on that?”
“Yeah...”
“So how do you propose to increase the money supply?”
“By borrowing some more. Hey, Tammy, that’s just the way the galaxy works.”
“But if we borrow more, we will go deeper into debt, and we’ll have to pay out even more as
interest.”
“Which we can easily afford from a growing economy!”
“But only up to a point.”
“What point?”
“The point when we run out of money!”
“We ain’t gonna run out money, honey!”
“Yes, we are! Look at the figures.”
Governor Stardust leaned back in his chair. He looked up at Mona.
“Mona, honey. Be a doll and fetch us some coffee... Or would you prefer buttermilk, Tammy?”
“Thanks, coffee will be fine.”
Governor Stardust decided to humour Tammy. She was clearly a bright kid who had just picked
up a weird notion from someplace. Wean her off that and she could be useful, in more ways than
one.
“Okay,” he said at last, “let’s take a look at your figures.”
“Right. We borrowed two thousand in total. We’ve paid back four hundred so far. So how much
does that leave in the economy at the moment?”
“Well, I don’t know, Tammy. Take your uncle’s business. That must be worth several hundred
and his turnover will be pretty high.”
“I am not talking about capital and I am not talking about turnover. I am talking about the money
supply. We have sixteen hundred dollars in circulation.”
“That’s kinda precise. How can you be so sure?”
“It’s simple arithmetic. We had two thousand. We’ve repaid four hundred. Four hundred from
two thousand is sixteen hundred.”
The Governor shook his head disbelievingly.
“Now, supposing we don’t borrow any more money,” continued Tammy.
“Which we will,” countered the Governor.
“Let me finish. Supposing we don’t borrow any more money, we have to pay another four
hundred in interest this year, another four hundred the year after, another four hundred the year after
that, and another four hundred the year after that. Agreed?”
Mona came in carrying the coffee which she set down in front of the Governor, as far from
Tammy as she could mange. Then she settled herself onto a chair just behind his right shoulder and
busied herself with polishing her already immaculate nails.
36
“I dunno, whatever, okay, I guess...” stammered the Governor.
“So how much money will we have in circulation then?”
“I don’t know. It depends upon the amount of growth.”
“Nothing. Not a penny piece.”
“What?”
“We will have borrowed two thousand and repaid two thousand. Two thousand less two
thousand equals nothing.”
“Well, that’s right ain’t it? You borrow some money, you pay it back. That’s how business
works, honey. You can’t expect to have something for nothing.”
“But that two thousand dollars that we will have repaid will only be the interest. We will still
owe the two thousand dollar principle!”
“But, like I said, honey, things don’t work like that. You’re not allowing for growth.”
“Okay, so we have growth, and like you said, we borrow more. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“How much more?”
“I don’t know.”
“A thousand a year?”
“No, maybe that’s too much. We don’t want inflation.”
“Well, we borrowed that second thousand two years after the first, so let’s say five hundred a
year. Okay?”
“Okay, yeah, whatever.”
“So we repay four hundred this year, and borrow another five hundred. We’ll have borrowed two
thousand five hundred. We’ll have seventeen hundred in circulation. We owe five hundred per year
in interest, which we pay next year, and then borrow another five hundred. We’ll have borrowed
three thousand, but have only seventeen hundred in circulation, and we’ll owe six hundred in
annual interest payments...”
The Governor picked up his coffee and sat back in his chair to sip it. He decided to just let his
visitor get on with her rant. Eventually she would have to finish and would leave.
Ignored by both of the other two people in the room, Tammy started furiously scribbling new
calculations.
“In two years’ time, we pay the six hundred, borrow another five hundred, giving us sixteen
hundred in circulation and a debt of three thousand five hundred upon which we owe seven hundred
per year. In three year’s time, we pay the seven hundred, borrow another five hundred, giving us
fourteen hundred in circulation and a debt of four thousand, for which we owe eight hundred per
year...”
The Governor allowed himself to drift into a reverie. He wondered whether he could come onto
Mona before the election, or should he wait until afterwards, just to be sure? He thought that maybe
he could get her primed just ready, so that come election night, he would be able to celebrate in
style, and come on election night. The thought warmed and comforted him.
“... In four year’s time, we pay the eight hundred and borrow five hundred, giving us eleven
hundred in circulation and a debt of four thousand five hundred, upon which we owe nine hundred
per year in interest. In five year’s time we pay the nine hundred and borrow five hundred, giving us
seven hundred in circulation and a debt of five thousand upon which we will owe one thousand
dollar’s annual interest...” She paused for dramatic effect. “...which we will not be able to pay
because we will only have seven hundred dollars available and we will still owe five thousand
dollars as principle!”
The Governor became aware that Tammy had stopped talking. Even Mona looked up from her
nails. Tex looked at Tammy. She was staring at him, expectantly. He tried to recall the last few
37
lines of her rant. The words ‘in five year’s time’ came to him. In five year’s time, he would no
longer be Governor and it would be someone else’s problem, if problem it indeed was and not some
kid’s fantasy.
“So, let me get this straight. What you’re saying is that in five year’s time, we’re gonna have a
problem?”
“Yes!!” exclaimed a thankful Tammy, happy that she had finally got through.
The Governor turned towards her, and looked grave and thoughtful. Tammy looked happy and
triumphant. She was kinda cute, he thought, if only she’d spend more time on herself.
“So what I’m gonna suggest, Tammy, is that we don’t try to deal with a problem until it arises.
Come back in five year’s time. Whoever’s Governor then, I’m sure he... or she will pleased to hear
all about what you’ve got to say.”
“But it’ll be far too late by then! Don’t you see! Have you understood a single word I have
said?!”
“Now don’t you adopt that tone of voice with me, young lady! I am Governor of the Great
Society of Standardia and I will have some respect around here!”
Tammy shrank back, and the Governor calmed himself.
“Now, Tammy, I have a great of respect for your aunt and uncle, and I would hate to see them
get hurt. So I’m gonna overlook this... this of you making a fool of yourself, but that also means
you not making a fool of yourself in public. These are foolish notions. They’ll upset and worry
people, them as can understand a half of what you’ve been on about. These ideas of yours are
dangerous and... and un-Standardian. They’re unpatriotic, that’s what they are. My advice to you,
young lady, is to go home, start and learn how to make something of yourself and then think about
making some fine young Standardian boy a good wife.
“Listen, Tammy, I know you’re a good girl, and I like you, I really do. I can see that your heart
is in the right place. You care about people; you care about Standardia and that’s a fine thing in a
young woman, but, like I say, you should leave the running of Standardia to those of us who know
about these things. Who put these ideas in your head? Your father?”
“No.”
“No, and your father is a fine businessman. If he isn’t concerned about the economy and, let’s
face, he’s doing well enough, like most folks, then there ain’t no cause for you to go troubling your
pretty little head about it.”
Tammy exploded at that last remark.
“You damn fool! You stupid stupid man! Your stupidity and incompetence and ignorance and...
and... and stupidity will see us losing this planet! As things stand, we’ll have to sell it to pay for our
debts!”
The Governor said nothing, and the silence hung heavily between them. After that final outburst,
Tammy controlled herself, rose from her chair with as much dignity as she could muster and began
to show herself out. Wanting the final word, Tex called after her.
“Ask Mrs Stardust to let you have some cookies, you hear?!”
Chapter 15
The weeks passed and, sure enough, Tex Stardust was re-elected Governor with an increased
majority, despite the rumours that were widespread about his liaison with his intern, Mona
Lustbather. Everyone said ‘It’s the economy, stupid.’ and ignored the Governor’s morality.
Everyone, or nearly everyone, was better off than they had ever been before, and that was the only
thing that mattered.
38
Tammy was seen less and less around the town. Whatever Tex Stardust had said about caring for
her aunt and uncle, Mona Lustbather had seen to it that everyone knew that Tammy Woodsawyer
was seriously weird, and in Standardia, the land of independent free-thinkers, being weird was a
grave social embarrassment.
So Tammy did not join the excited throng that gathered when an expected shiny speck in the sky
resolved itself into an ugly little starship that came to rest in the open space that sported a sign
reading: ‘Welcome to Standardia City Interplanetary Spaceport’.
When Greenboi emerged from his craft and walked down the ramp, he was surprised to be
greeted by a thoroughly enthusiastic crowd. His business on this planet was simply to collect four
hundred of the Standardian dollars that had been lent to them, and then to lend them as much more
as they wanted to borrow. He had two thousand crisp new Standardian notes ready and waiting,
with the capacity to print off more should he be asked for them.
Given the nature of his business, he had expected indifference at best from the populace as a
whole, more likely a mild resentment. This exuberant welcome was somewhat disturbing. Did they
know something that he or, more disturbing still, his Master knew nothing about?
There was, he knew, nothing for it but to remain correct, business-like and polite. He walked
towards what was evidently the welcoming committee.
“Greetings, people of Standardia, I am Greenboi, here on behalf of my master, Barcla the
Hoard.”
At the mention of Barcla’s name, the crowd went wild. There was hollering and screaming and
whistling, and at first Greenboi was seriously alarmed, before the amazing realisation dawned that
these garish and unseemly noises were signs of approbation.
Governor Tex Stardust held up a hand for quiet.
“Welcome to Standardia, once again, Mr Greenboi, sir. Both yourself and your master are indeed
honoured guests to our humble planet, and I would like to take this opportunity of inviting you to
lunch in the Residence of the Governor of the Great Society of Standardia!”
There was more whistling and yelling and cheering, for reasons quite beyond the comprehension
of any non-resident of Standardia. Perhaps it was because most folks there didn’t get out much.
“Residence of whom?” squawked an uncertain voice from Greenboi’s chest translator.
“Me,” explained Tex. “I’m the Governor, remember? Would you like to have lunch at my
house? And we can conclude our business there as well.”
“Very well, “ agreed Greenboi. “Will it involve drinking beer?”
“Not if you don’t want to, sir. Mind you, we do a very refreshing root beer.”
Greenboi’s snout wrinkled in anticipation. He liked the sound of root beer.
He liked the taste of root beer, as well, and the food itself was tolerable if not what he was used
to. After lunch, a pile of dollar bills, the four hundred dollars that he was expecting, was wheeled
out of an office on a small trolley. Expected to count them, he did so and nodded with satisfaction
when he found that all was in order.
“Now there is one other thing, Mr Greenboi, sir,” murmured the Governor. “But I do not know
whether Mr Barcla gave you authority in this matter...”
“You wish to borrow more money?”
“Why, yes sir. You see our economy is booming and we’d like to keep it that way, we’ve seen
the problems when there ain’t enough money to keep folks in work and...”
“How much?”
Tex had thought about this matter. Numbers and phrases from a half remembered conversation
of a few weeks ago were buzzing around his head. A thousand was too much, he recalled, and the
number five hundred, whilst about right, produced a strange uneasiness.
“Six hundred?”
39
“Agreed. I shall draw up the contract and give you the money when I return to my ship.”
“Why, thank you, Mr Greenboi, sir.”
Outside on her hillside overlooking Standardia City International Spaceport, Tammy watched
the junketing below with indifference. She had long concluded that she had no future on this planet,
and there below her was her means of escape. All she had to do was get aboard.
She sauntered down to the starship and did a quick visual check on its hatches. As she expected,
they were all closed. There was no sign of the owner and the crowd that had formed to welcome
him had largely dispersed. Just a few snotty-nosed kids hung around.
Some of these decided it would be fun to taunt her, so she turned away from them and the
starship and walked the short distance home. She packed a bag with a few things that she thought
she might need, wrote a brief note saying ‘Goodbye’ to her aunt and uncle, and walked down to the
ship again.
Out of the Governor’s House, came a little party which, it was clear to see, included the little
green starship pilot. Tammy was studiously ignored by the other Standardians, rather less so by
Greenboi. The new contract had been signed and the new dollars handed over up at the Governor’s
house. Here, by the starship, it was just a matter of host and guest saying their good-byes. Even so,
Mona Lustbather turned upon Tammy.
“Tammy Woodsawyer, you have no business here. Git!”
“I have business with Mr Greenboi, here.”
Puzzled, Greenboi turned to her.
“What business?” he asked.
Barcla had told him nothing about this.
“Any chance of a lift?”
“Where to?”
“Anywhere.”
Greenboi looked at the other Standardians, they gave various ‘nothing-to-do-with-me’ signals
and gestures of indifference.
“Is it permitted?” Greenboi finally asked the Governor.
“Fine by me.”
“Yes,” agreed Greenboi. “Welcome aboard. Don’t mind the smell, that was going to be my
lunch.”
Tammy strapped herself into the one of the few passenger seats behind the pilot’s chair. Then
with all systems checked, the anti-grav drive shot them into space beyond Standardia’s orbit.
“It’s very kind of you, Mr Greenboi, giving me a lift like this.”
“Not at all,” returned the pilot. “My master is looking for another dancing girl. The last one got
eaten.”
Chapter 16
Barcla steeled himself for another visit to Bacchanalia. His guards had strict instructions not to
let any of the XXXX drink anywhere near his lips even if he asked for some.
The people of Bacchanalia should, he concluded, be just about ready to start borrowing, and
heavily too, now that they had little money of their own. Before landing, he orbited the planet a few
times and scanned its geography. There was the human settlement and by the look of it, it had
hardly changed from his first visit.
40
There was now a large building in the middle of the settlement and a long thin road wound its
way from the settlement to the sea. Apart from these there was no change, quite unlike Standardia
which seemed to change and grow even as he flew over it.
His arrival attracted very little attention. So when he oozed down the ramp, surrounded as ever
by his assortment of guards, he had to look around to attract someone’s attention. He accosted a
small child who told him to ‘buzz off, fatty’. Eventually a familiar figure in the shape of Bruce
Brewsterson showed up. Bruce was half expecting a visitor from space.
“G’day, Barky good to see you, mate. How you been keeping?”
“I am very well, Bruce Brewsterson. How are you?”
“No worries, mate.”
“There are few people about.”
“Yeah. There’s some down at the beach. Some working their fields. Others have gone
walkabout. I think that Howie will be along, and Dewie, Lewie, Stewie and one or two others.
They’ll all have seen the ship. They’ll be here. No worries, mate. I don’t think they went to the
beach. It’s a pretty long hike, you know? We should have built the settlement there when we first
arrived.”
“Could you not move?”
“Yes. That’s what we’re kinda planning to do. The trouble is getting every one together long
enough to organise things, and then when we do, there’s usually a fight.”
“A fight?”
“Yeah. It’s hard to explain, really. I don’t know what it is, but take Dewie now, he wanted a new
horse, reckoned that’d save time getting to and from the beach. Lewie had a horse for sale, but
Dewie didn’t have enough money, so he asked Stewie about that wood-cutting job that he’d talked
about. Stewie wanted the job done, but didn’t have any money because he was half way through
building a new stable for Lewie who didn’t have the money because although he had a fine
selection of horses, no one’s buying because frankly nobody, apart from myself, has got much
money and even my income is down.”
“I have your refrigeration system for you. Fully solar-powered.”
“Oh, great! How much?”
“One hundred and twenty Imperial Credits.”
“Sorry, Barky, I’m not sure I’ve got enough. I’ve got the twenty I owe you in interest on the
other. I’ve got that. That’s safely tucked away, no worries.”
“G’day, Barky, me ol’ mucker”, called Howie as he rolled up.
With him were Dewie, Lewie, Sheila and Kayley.
“G’day, Barky,” chorussed the others.
“Greetings, citizens of Bacchanalia. A small but select gathering, I see.”
“No worries, mate. Stewie and a few others’ll be along soon.”
“I was just explaining to Barky here, how we don’t seem to be able to do much these days,”
Brucie informed his friends.
“Yeah. No one’s selling because no one’s buying, and no one’s buying because no one else is
buying.”
“A classic case of economic stagnation,” said Barcla.
“Economic stagnation?”
“Yes, Bruce Brewsterson explained it most cogently,” cooed a contented Barcla. “I rather fancy
that too much money was paid out of your economy when Greenboi last visited.”
“Who did that then?”
“Brucie, here. When he repaid the greater part of his debt to me.”
“Oh, Brucie, why’d you do that?”
41
“I thought it was good business practice, fellers. I’m sorry.”
“So what do we do about it, Barky ol’ mate?”
“Your economy needs an injection of cash.”
“It does?”
“Sounds painful. So where’d do we inject it then? In your backside?”
“Not in my backside, I thank you,” declared Barcla. “You need to borrow some money, either as
individuals or as a community...”
“Borrowing money. Now that’s dicey, Barky mate.”
“Not at all. It’s a perfectly normal business arrangement. To whom did I lend money two years
ago?”
“Me,” admitted Brucie.
“And who is the richest man in your community?”
“Now that is not the sort of thing we like to talk about around here, Barky ol’ mate?”
“Even so?”
All eyes turned on Bruce Brewsterson.
“My point exactly, and he tells me that his falling income is due to his customers being short of
money!”
“How much, then?” asked Howie.
Barcla looked thoughtful.
“From your evident distress and from the size of your population, I should think that a thousand
Imperial Credits should do it.”
“A thousand?”
“I shall lend them to your governing council, and it can then lend it out to individuals.”
“And the interest?”
“The same as for Bruce Brewsterson here. 20%”
“So what will that mean?” asked Dewie.
“I’ll tell you, mate,” explained Brucie. “It means that you’ll be able to buy that horse from
Lewie, who will be able to pay off Stewie, who will be able to pay you!”
“Oh, bonza, mate! No worries.”
The business was done. A thousand Imperial Credits was entrusted to Howie as Chairman of the
Council of the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia. Bruce paid up his interest and was advanced an
additional loan of one hundred Credits towards the cost of his new refrigeration system. This was
duly unloaded thanks to the help of Dewie, Lewie and Stewie. Meanwhile Sheila and Kayley
organised a barbie, and Brucie produced beers all round.
Barcla made his excuses and oozed back to his ship where he found a pair of young
Bacchanalians waiting expectantly, complete with full back-packs.
“G’day. Are you Barky?” they asked.
Barcla the Hoard glanced about to see if he remotely resembled anyone else.
“Yes,“ he finally admitted.
“We were wondering whether you needed any staff?”
Again Barcla gazed about himself, this time at the menagerie that was his mobile court of gofers,
guards, entertainers and lunch.
“What can you do?” he asked curiously.
“Bar work mainly.”
“Mmm. You wish to work for me?”
“Well,” admitted one with touching honesty. “We actually just want to see a bit of the galaxy
before we settle down, and you’re our only way out of here.”
42
That part of Barcla that was kindly and considerate was tempted to tell them to go back to their
mothers and be thankful that the rest of the galaxy was a long way away, even at supra-light speed,
but that side of him was always easily overruled by the rest of him which decided that a couple of
hostages might not be such a bad idea.
“Welcome aboard, my dears, welcome aboard.”
“Oh, thanks, Barky. I’m Kerry and this is Jerry.”
Chapter 17
When Nathan West next visited Elysium, he once again checked his galactic calendar to ensure
that his visit did not coincide with the Annual Flower and Produce Show. He was in confident
mood.
After his last visit, he was confident that he had removed more than half of their currency. He
was also confident that this collection of green-fingered twits and twin-sets, even if they knew what
had happened to their economy, would have no idea as to how they would resolve the problem.
They would simply know that they were short of money.
In the hold of his ship were more sacks of slug pellets. He also had a few teasmades for sale, on
the off-chance than some might have missed out the last time, but his hopes for securing control of
the planet lay in the little bundles of Toy Town pounds and Imperial Credit Notes that lay in the
ship’s strong box.
There was a gathering of Little Elysium’s great and good collected to greet Mr West as he,
backed as ever by his two impersonal bodyguards, stalked the short way towards them, the cape of
his hooded cloak swirling about him like a swirling cloak. He noticed some his watchers cast
nervous glances between them which, he decided, was a good sign.
“Greetings, Harold Sodbuster and the good people of Elysium.”
“Good morning, Mr West, and welcome once again to Little Elysium-on-the-Planet.”
“I bring more slug pellets and more teasmades,” declared West grandly.
“Ah, well, now then, Mr West, I have to say that I am afraid that you have had a bit of a wasted
journey. We don’t want to buy any more slug pellets.”
“No more slug pellets?” mused Nathan West easily. He nodded with evident understanding.
“No, you see, one of girls, Lucy Greenwood, her that lives at number 6 with that boyfriend of
hers, always rushing about on that velocipede of theirs. Well, apparently, Lucy is a very
knowledgeable herbalist, and all that rushing about was to discover what suitable herbs there were
on this planet and what they all did, and, well, to cut a long story short... she’s come up with a very
good natural slug repellent.”
“I see,” rumbled West, testily. “And teasmades?”
“No, no more teasmades either, Mr West. You see, you’ll only accept money for them, won’t
you, rather than payment in kind?”
“I have no use for onions or petunias.”
“Well, to tell you the truth... I’m not sure I should, but I’m sure you’ll understand... Well, we’re
running rather short of actual money at the moment.”
Ahhh, thought West with internal satisfaction, now we come to it!
“... we could give you a cheque,” continued Mr Sodbuster, “but then you don’t have an account
with the Bank of Elysium. Mind you, I’m sure Derek would be happy to open one for you, you
being such a trusted business partner.”
Alarm bells started ringing in West’s brain, but he remained outwardly calm.
“Bank of Elysium?” he asked slowly.
43
“Yes, we’ve been very fortunate in having some sound financial advice, from young... oh, he’s
not here. Yes, it’s all soundly based. The bank has an issuing department, which only issues money
for the benefit of the public purse, and that is quite separate from its saving and borrowing side.”
Remaining outwardly calm, West screamed internally. They know the secret of the Source!
“Most impressive,” he cooed smoothly.
He allowed time to gaze as these yokels, with their happy contented faces. He saw no wit of
ambition within them, no cunning, no deviousness, no lust for ultimate power, and yet they knew
the secret. Perhaps, he thought, they did not know that they knew.
There are, of course, things that one knows that one knows, things that one knows that one does
not know and things that one does not know that one does not know, but here, before him now were
a group of people whom, it would seem, did not know what they knew.
“So, I’m very sorry, Mr West, for your wasted journey, but would you like to come and have a
nice cup of tea anyway?”
West accepted the offer of a nice cup of tea. He also accepted the offer of a stroll around the
village with Harold Sodbuster, who proudly showed off the new Bank of Elysium, and the new road
to the sea. This latter project had been built by the Valhades Demons, explained Harold, as
somewhere to go on their velocipedes on those days in the summer when the Bank of Elysium was
closed.
Nathan West allowed Sodbuster to witter on about all the new things that the Bank of Elysium
was now paying for whilst he wracked his brains for a solution. He eventually decided that he
would again accept the offer of an overnight stay.
In the wee small hours, he slipped out of the Sodbusters’ house and made his way to the bank. He
opened the locked door with ease and then opened the locked cupboard. There was the same small
strong box as before, but he was not interested in that. His concern was for the ledgers.
There was the one he had seen before and a new one. He opened this new one and with the aid of
a powerful electric torch scanned its pages, which were all set out in the neat round hand of Derek
Moneypenny.
Hope stirred within him. If these people did not know the significance of what they knew, then
maybe the situation was not lost. Yet someone had told them, and who ever it was had to be
discovered and eliminated.
Nathan West was not the only cloaked figure abroad that night. As soon as he heard that the
galactic financier had agreed to stay the night, Mark Skyspotter had established a close vigil on the
bank. He watched as the hooded figure made his way inside the building, and then moved up to it to
watch the intruder’s activities from the doorway.
In his hand, Mark fingered a short, thick hand-grip with a couple of switches set into the grip.
Above this small post was a circular metal disc barely larger in diameter than his spread palm. A
number of curious jewel-like components were built into both handle and disc, including the
smallest power cell that Mark had ever seen.
The instrument had been formally presented to him by his uncle, on that memorable evening the
year before when he had returned from the forest.
“It was your father’s. Take good care it,” had been Ewen Skyspotter’s only words.
Mark watched as the hooded figure took out the bank’s ledger and brought it around to place it
upon the desk. Then he leaped forward and thrust the hand-grip forward into the intruder’s face
flicking on the switch as he did so. The torch came on, sending a bright beam of light straight into
the man’s face. West dropped the ledger and swung his own torch before him. There followed a
vigorous tussle as each man tried to blind the other with his beam, to see the face of his intruder,
44
and to deny the other the chance of seeing his own. They were evenly matched, the young man
stronger, the older man more experienced.
The powerful beams from their torches flashed through the darkness of the bank office as each
tried to secure the advantage over the other. Around the counter they chased and fought, swinging
their torches like weapons of close quarter combat.
Experience told and it was Mark’s torch that was eventually knocked out of his hand. West had
him down on the ground, kneeling upon him, forcing him down with one arm, whilst bringing his
torch down with his other to get a good view of his assailant.
“Who are you?!” he barked. “And what do you mean by creeping up on me like this?!”
“You’re the one who should be answering the questions!” cried Mark defiantly.
West considered this for a moment.
“No, young man, I think you’ll find that the person who is on top, with the other in his power, is
the one who asks the questions, and the other one does the answering. That is the standard
arrangement. Now, who are you?!”
Mark had nothing to hide.
“Mark Skyspotter.”
He felt a twinge in West’s arm, a lessening of the grip, but it soon re-tightened.
“Ewen Skyspotter’s nephew?”
“Yes. And I know who you are, even with that cloak on. You’re Nathan West. I know all about
you.”
“You’ve never seen me before!”
“No. But I’ve heard all about you, about how you trained with the Co-op Mutual, then became
obsessed with power and betrayed decent financing to become... to become what you are!”
“It was you, wasn’t it?! It was you who revealed to these yokels the secret of the Source?”
“Yes. And now they are beyond your power, Nathan West!”
“I think not, for they do not know what they know. They do not have the depth of understanding
of you or I, young Skyspotter. Without a strong understanding to guide them, they could still be
overcome.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I am afraid the ordinary citizen will not like to be told that the banks can and do create money.
And they who control the credit of the nation direct the policy of governments and hold in the
hollow of their hand the destiny of the people.”
“Who said that?”
“I just did. So you see, young Skyspotter, your power to sway the people here is limited by what
they themselves are prepared to believe. Not you, of course. You have been well trained in the ways
of the Source, young Skyspotter.”
“Yes, by one who knew you years ago.”
“So I gather, but your understanding is very great, too great for a small planet like Elysium.
Would you not like to travel the galaxy, to soar to the limits of your power and knowledge?”
“I... No!”
“But you do, young Skyspotter! It is your destiny. You are a young man, and all young men seek
power and glory and status. Come with me, Mark Skyspotter and be my aide and apprentice. I will
teach you even more of how to use the Source to gain power!”
“Must not!”
“Be true to your feelings, Mark.”
“I cannot go with you, Nathan West! You... you killed my father!”
“No, Mark, no... I am your father!”
45
Chapter 18
The following day, Mark Skyspotter said his good-byes to his aunt and uncle, who still remained
ignorant of the true identity of the hooded Nathan West. He bid farewell to Harold Sodbuster and
Derek Moneypenny, quietly warning Derek never to be tempted by the blandishments of those who
would lend money to Elysium that was not created and controlled by the Elysians themselves,
especially not Imperial Credits, tempting though those might seem, and to make sure that the money
created into the Parish Council’s account was only used for capital projects and never ever lent to
borrowers.
As they watched the starship lift off into extra-orbital space, Harold turned and spoke out loudly.
“He’s a fine young man, that nephew of yours, Ewen. He’ll go far.”
“Yes,” agreed Derek, “but then he is travelling in a hyper-drive starship.”
Nathan’s Ship, the Western Leader sped through hyper-space and emerged into sub-light speeds
in the Tattoo system. There was Tattoo One and its sister planet, the deserted and abandoned Tattoo
Two, which spun around each other as together they orbited their twin suns.
. “Recognise it?” asked West of his son.
“No. We left when I was a kid, and I never saw it from space.”
Down on the surface of Tattoo One nothing was to be seen but dry light brown dust, with small
scraps of vegetation, but high up in space that haphazard growth resolved it self into the traces of
underground rivers and lakes that gave Tattoo One both its remaining capacity for supporting life
and its name. Tattoo Two had once been similarly patterned and, long before that, had been green
and lush.
Off to the right an Imperial Patrol Ship was clearly visible and as if to confirm its existence, the
Western Leader’s intercom crackled into life.
“Ship in sector 12GB745. Identify yourself!”
“Hello, patrol, this is Western Leader, code 145893, seeking clearance for landing on Tattoo
One.”
There was a pause, and then a very hasty: “Clearance confirmed! Sir!”
That last word caught, Mark’s attention. From his memories of life on Tattoo One, and from
comments made by the citizens of Elysium, Imperial officials, whether civilian or military, never
called anyone ‘sir’, unless they were, or thought to be, a superior in the Imperial hierarchy.
They landed at Skywalker City Spaceport and were waved through customs by some very
deferential officers to a large, if otherwise unremarkable, landspeeder. It would be driven by one of
West’s bodyguards, who took the key from the hire-agency official.
“You know, I am not sure that I should be here, father,” Mark mentioned as they sped across the
dusty flatlands around Skywalker City. “I’m now a resident of a Restricted Planet.”
“You’re now an employee of Western Credit,” said West easily, and handed Mark an identity
document that had been prepared for him. “And a rather senior employee at that. I’ve given you the
name of Mark West. If any Imperial officer asks for your identity, show him that. And if he is of
less than planet governor rank, tell him what you want of him, but be discreet.”
Mark gazed down at the little document that seemed to afford him so much power, and then
gazed up at his father. It was one thing to hear of powerful men, it was quite another to be among
them, to become one of them.
They sped across flat desert and Nathan pointed out the landscape.
“When I first came here, this was all green fields. Look at it now. Soon Tattoo One will be quite
uninhabitable.”
46
Across the flat desert could be seen a range of low hills, with mountains beyond. Towards these
at a speed, Mark reckoned, that was just below Mach 1, the landspeeder raced. Eventually, a large,
round and unremarkable building hove into view. It was unremarkable until one got closer and
closer and it grew in size. It was huge.
“Now then, Mark, I have business with the owner of this establishment. Stay close and keep your
eyes and ears open and your mouth closed.”
The four cloaked and hooded figures, Nathan, Mark and the two bodyguards, strode through the
enormous if untidy and rather dirty palace until they emerged into Barcla the Hoard’s throne room.
“Ah, Nathan,” boomed the giant slug. “I had not expected you so soon. Your business with the
Empire has begun?”
“Not yet, Barcla, but I was passing, so I thought to drop in.”
“You are welcome as ever, Nathan, and you are fortunate to find me at home. You have recruited
another aide, I see.”
“My son, Mark.”
“Ah, welcome, young Mark West.”
Barcla summoned his acolytes to their duties.
“Refreshments for my honoured guests, and you...” He prodded Tammy who, chained to his
side, was scantily clad in little more than a jewel encrusted bikini. “... dance for my visitors.”
Tammy stood up and started to gyrate her torso and wave her arms. She was extremely bored
and neither temperamentally nor physically cut out for dancing.
Nevertheless, both Wests, father and son, stared in amazement at her. West senior gazed at her
eyes. He had seen those eyes before. They haunted his dreams. West junior gazed elsewhere. He
was just fascinated to see a scantily clad young human female gyrating in front of him. It was not
the sort of thing that one saw in Little Elysium.
Pleased that his guests were entertained, Barcla watched as his two new members of staff came
forward with drinks for his guests. They proved useful after all, he thought.
“The Empire has discovered the rebellion, I see,” remarked Barcla conversationally.
It was he who had allowed the fact to become known.
“So I gather, the Empire is mustering its forces...” returned Nathan.
“And building more, I assume?”
“Once they have the money.”
“You are on your way to the Emperor now?”
“I am.”
“Yet you found time to call in on your old friend, Barcla. How very considerate.”
“You gave me a dud planet.”
“What?”
“Elysium. They know the Source.”
“Really?! You surprise me.”
“Oh, I don’t think they understand it fully and with time and effort, I might be able to turn things
around, but frankly, Barcla, I have neither the time nor the inclination. I have more important
matters in hand. You said you had a spare. I want it.”
“Nathan, you are the oldest and most sincere of my friends, but I would remind you of where
you are.”
“Barcla, I am ever glad that our business together over the years has been so mutually profitable,
but there is a message on my starship set to go in two day’s time. If I do not cancel it, and only I
can, the Empire will know of your loan to the rebels.”
“Of course, you can have the spare, my dear Nathan. That is precisely why I secured it, just in
case one of us should happen to have need of it. You will, of course, buy the debt from me?”
47
“Of course, if the debt is mine, the planet is mine. How much?”
“Twelve hundred Imperial Credits.”
Nathan raised a quizzical eyebrow to show that it was odd that Barcla should worry over so
little.
“Every little helps,” explained Barcla. “As it so happens, the two humans who served you your
drinks came from that very planet. It’s called Bacchanalia.”
“Then, I’ll take them as well, to learn something of the ways of my new home, as they are my
property now. And the dancing girl, I’ll buy her from you, as well.”
“Oh, you can have her for nothing. She can’t dance and she can’t sing either. So, how big a loan
will you be extending to the Empire.”
“I thought that I would limit it to ten billion, and explain how it will take time to raise the funds
from various sources around the galaxy.”
Barcla chuckled heartily.
“It’s like taking candy from a baby... and then what, ten billion every galactic year?”
“Yes, I think that would seem credible.”
“Yes, besides, if we lend them too much, they’ll cause too much death and destruction. You
know what these military types are like. We don’t want them to do too much damage to our galaxy.
That’s my thinking at least. We all remember Aldershott.”
Nathan stopped smiling and looked very serious.
“Oh, my dear fellow,” cried Barcla. “How unthinking of me. I am so very sorry.”
“No. That’s all right. I have got used to it. It is something of a cliché, these days.”
“Yes, and a lesson for all of us. If either the Empire or the rebels even start thinking of building a
new Debt Star, we do not advance them the funds for it. Agreed?”
“Agreed!”
Chapter 19
When the landspeeder sped back across the dusty wastes of Tattoo One, it carried three more
passengers on board than with which it had come. Fortunately, it was a seven-seater vehicle. Nathan
West and the bodyguard who drove the vehicle sat in the front. Mark and the other bodyguard sat in
the rear two seats, and Kerry. Jerry and Tammy were placed in the middle tier.
Tammy had been found some more suitable clothing, and she, Kerry and Jerry, wondered about
these new ‘owners’ of theirs. At least, they thought to themselves, their new masters were human,
and the younger one even smiled at them. Tammy thought him rather cute.
Mark leaned forward to talk to his father’s three new ‘acquisitions’.
“I used to live on this planet,” he remarked, by way of conversation.
They all looked at each other to see to whom he was addressing his remark.
“So did I,” said Tammy, deciding to be friendly and confident.
“We did, too,” added Kerry and Jerry.
“Did? You don’t live here now?” asked Mark, his curiosity aroused.
“No, I went to live on Standardia,” replied Tammy.
“We went to Bacchanalia,” offered Kerry and Jerry.
“I see. We went to Eylsium, my aunt and uncle and me. It’s what they call a Restricted Planet. I
lived with my aunt and uncle until... well, until recently.”
“I lived with my aunt and uncle on Standardia. That’s a Restricted Planet, too,” returned Tammy.
“Yes, and Bacchanalia is as well, but we lived with our parents, our separate parents. We’re not
related or anything,” added Kerry, as Jerry nodded his agreement.
48
“I thought you were together?” asked Mark of the two Bacchanalians.
“Well, we are kind of, but not really. If you see what I mean?”
“Yeah, I see,” said Mark, although he didn’t. “So how did you guys end up working for Barcla
the Hoard?”
“Oh, that’s a really weird story,” offered Tammy.
“We offered to work as bar staff, to see something of the galaxy,” said Kerry.
Mark decided that Tammy’s weird story sounded the more interesting.
“So tell us, Tammy. What’s this weird story?” he asked.
“Oh well, like I said, I was living on Standardia, which was okay, I guess, but... well, it sounds
kinda weird, but I got into an argument with the Governor.”
“The Governor?”
“Yes. The Governor of Standardia. He’s the elected guy in charge, and after that everyone
treated me like I had a screw loose, and so when that little green guy that works for Barcla showed
up one time, I asked him for a lift and he said ‘Sure’, and then I ended up at Barcla’s palace, like
you saw.”
“Were you there long?”
“No, a week or so. A couple of days after I got there, Kerry and Jerry showed up, which kinda
made things easier.”
“Two questions arise,” put Mark “What was the cause of the argument and what was Barcla’s
business with Standardia?”
“Oh, that’s really the one answer. We had a loan with Barcla, Greenboi was there collecting the
interest, and maybe paying out more as a loan, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“And the argument?”
“I tried to make the Governor understand that as we did not have any external income, being a
Restricted Planet, so we’d never be able to pay off this loan. We’d end up...”
Mark suddenly raised his finger to his lips, and Tammy stopped abruptly. She frowned, puzzled,
but he was the boss.
“Yes, I see,” he said slowly. “Yes, these matters are always a difficult judgement.”
“Not to me,” declared an honest Tammy.
Mark made short, but distinctive shakes of the head, and Tammy decided that she was, for
whatever reason, required not to speak anymore. Best get used to the masters’ ways, she decided.
At least he did not look like he would dribble all over her, like that slob, Barcla the Hoard.
Mark leaned back in his seat and all conversation in the vehicle died, but he had learned
something useful. Tammy was not just a pretty face. He decided that she might prove to be a
valuable ally, if only he could get to talk to her without being overheard.
The landspeeder slowed considerably to nose its way through the crowded streets of Skywalker
City, which served as the main point of entry and departure to Tattoo One and consequently was a
rather cosmopolitan place. Alien races of all shapes and sizes walked or lumbered about on their
own particular business.
Nathan West turned around in his seat and addressed his companions.
“I have a little business to conduct before we leave. It should not take very long, but I shall drop
you all off at the docking bay and see you through Customs. I don’t suppose that you have Imperial
ID cards?”
Tammy, Kerry and Jerry shook their heads.
“Right. So once you’re inside, don’t go wandering off, not unless you fancy seeing the inside of
an Imperial prison cell. They’re not very nice. I know, one of my companies builds them, and being
not very nice is part of the specification. I’m sure that Mark will be able to entertain you for an hour
or so.”
49
They were waved courteously through Customs, one officer even saluted the tall hooded figure.
Then West, trailed as ever by his bodyguards, set off out of the docking area to complete his
business in Skywalker City..
The Western Leader was being checked over by all the members of its flight crew, who just
looked up as their boss arrived. He left, and they were relieved that they had a little more time yet.
They resumed their business, assisted by a member of the terminal staff.
The docking bay had a small waiting area, seats, toilets, and a drinks dispenser. Mark bought
everyone a drink and then motioned them to sit down. He glanced around him and then up at the
ceiling and around at the walls. Then he decided that he was being paranoid. There could be no
listening devices here, surely.
“Once we go aboard the starship,” he began, “I want you all to imagine that every word you say
is being overheard by everyone else aboard the ship. My father is a very clever man, and I have no
doubt that he has listening devices on board.”
He glanced around the waiting area, just to reassure himself that this area would not be bugged
by his father or listened to by some spying crew-member.
“I think that we’re all right here, so I want to make the most of this time before my father comes
back.”
His audience exchanged nervous glances. They did not understand the situation at all.
“Back there in the speeder, Tammy, I shut you up when you started to tell us about your
argument with your Governor. I’m sorry, I had to do it. When we go aboard that ship, and whenever
we are within my father’s presence, no talking about financial matters, okay?”
“Financial matters?!” spluttered Jerry. “I don’t know anything about financial matters!”
“No, but I suspect that you soon will. I also suspect that you, Tammy, do. Tell us about your
meeting with your Governor.”
“Yeah, okay. Well, its like this...” she began slowly. “Standardia had been lent money by Barcla
the Hoard, but after I’d thought about it a while, it seemed to me that sooner or later, the amount of
money that we owed in interest would exceed the amount of money that we had in circulation. It
was inevitable given that all our money was created as a debt...”
Mark nodded vigorously, but Jerry and Kerry looked baffled. Mark decided to explain.
“The amount of money needed to pay off an interest-bearing debt is always greater than the
initial amount borrowed.”
“Yes, that’s right,” agreed Tammy. “And like I said, all the money on Standardia had been
created as an interest-bearing debt, lent to us by Barcla the Hoard. So no matter how hard people
worked, and folks worked dammed hard - our growth rates must have been phenomenal...”
“Growth rates?” asked Jerry. Nobody talked about growth rates on Bacchanalia.
“Yes, essentially how much.... ‘stuff’ the economy produces, goods and services... Every year
we produced more food than the year before, more houses were built, more horses bred, more
buggies sold, more roads built... Growth, y’know? The only time we had problems was one year
when we didn’t have much money, because we had to pay the interest on our first loan which
reduced the amount of money in circulation. So then we borrowed more. But no matter how much
‘stuff’ was created, the only time the actual amount of money in circulation increased was when we
borrowed more from Barcla the Hoard, but because that too was an interest-bearing debt, it meant
that we all just owed more. So, no matter how much more we borrowed, ever since we took out that
very first loan, the amount of money in the economy would never, ever be enough to repay the
amount of the outstanding debt, since, due to the payment of interest, the amount outstanding would
always exceed the amount we had!”
Jerry’s mouth dropped open as he tried to work out what had just been said. Kerry thought that
she had ‘got’ it.
50
“But surely,” she asked, “if you all worked harder, you all earnt more and so all had more
money? That’s what happens doesn’t it?”
Kerry’s knowledge of money was limited to working at Brucie’s Bar, and the more hours she put
in the more money she earnt. Simple.
“For an individual, yes.” said Mark. “An individual, several individuals, even many individuals
can escape debt in an economy whose money is an interest-bearing debt... (Let’s call it IBDM for
interest-bearing debt money.) but the economy as a whole simply cannot, because within an
economy, for every seller of goods, services or labour, there has to be a buyer. Its like a zero sum
game, but one where, every year, a certain amount was subtracted to pay the interest. The only way
out of the problem is either that whomsoever lent the money and earns the interest spends, I say
spends, not lends, every single last penny that they earn as interest back into the economy.
Alternatively, that economy could try to trade off planet and so basically unload the debt onto some
other poor sucker.”
“Yes that’s what was happening on Standardia! Everyone was trying to unload their debt onto
someone else. I thought at first that I was the problem, that I was lazy and didn’t like work, but I
just like to work out the easiest way of doing things, and then when you see everybody flying
around like they’ve a wasp up their ass, you get to wondering why. And everyone you talk to is
worrying about meeting their interest payments and busy rushing about earning every dollar they
can, but still they want to look like they’re something special, so they’ll whitewash the picket fence
to make it look even more respectable, even though it doesn’t really need doing or buy a new dress
or a new buggy to look grand in town, expecting for certain that they’ll pay the interest this year,
and next year will have to look after itself, and next year they borrow more to spend it on a bigger
barn, another field, a horse or a buggy, because that’ll earn them even more money to make it easier
to pay their debt, and then the folks next door go one better than them in the respectability stakes,
so they’d feel obliged to spend more even though they owe more... Sometimes, I’d sit on the hill
overlooking the town, and it was like I was watching an ant’s nest. And d’you know what? After all
that work, they’ll be deeper in debt to the slug than ever before.”
“I guess Barcla the Hoard did not spend much of his earnings with you on Standardia?” asked
Mark.
“No, none at all, from what I saw, and we couldn’t trade off planet.”
“Because you were Restricted?”
“No. Well yes... that too, but the money that Barcla lent us was not Imperial Credits.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No. Folks were afraid that if the Empire caught us using Imperial Credit Notes... well, that’d be
the end of Standardia, so Barcla created our own currency, the Standardian dollar.”
Mark gazed abruptly to the ceiling and put his hand to his mouth. He did not know whether to
laugh or cry. The others gazed at him expectantly.
“So you borrowed what were intrinsically worthless bits of paper and agreed to pay interest on
them?” he asked Tammy.
She laughed ruefully.
“Yeah.”
“But, then the payments of interest will be in worthless bits of paper!” exclaimed Jerry.
“Yes, but a diminishing supply of them. I presume, Tammy, that like us on Elysium, you lacked
the technology to reproduce your dollar bills?”
“Oh, sure. We were still at the wooden block stage!”
“Do you have one?”
“Yes, I still got a couple. Here.”
51
She produced the two bits of paper, with their seal of the Great Society of Standardia, their
cropped pyramidal mountain with their watchful eye, and the legend ‘In the Source we trust’.
“What’s the Source?” asked Jerry.
“The Source of power,” said Mark, shortly.
“Really?! And what’s that?”
“Its manifestation changes through time... I do not have the time now to explain it and... and an
inadequate attempt might prove dangerous. One day, perhaps.”
Jerry gazed at Mark with an increased respect. Mark ignored it.
“Back on Standardia, people used to say things like ‘May the Source bless you’ or ‘May the
Source be with you’, like it was some kind of mantra. I don’t think they really knew what it was.”
“Obviously not,” agreed Mark. “Or they would not have been fooled by Barcla the Hoard. Well,
at least the fact that Standardia has its own currency which is unacceptable to the rest of the Empire
limits the problem and will it make far easier to solve it, when we are able to get back there.”
“But if the money wasn’t Imperial Credits,” mused a puzzled Jerry. “What did Barcla the Hoard
want with it?”
“He wanted the people of Standardia to be in debt to him, so they would bow to his wishes. He
wants the people to build him a new palace in which to hide out from the forthcoming war. This
they will do in order to earn the money that they need to pay their interest charges.
“So, Tammy, how long before Standardia gets into real difficulties, do you think?”
“I reckon five years at the outside, but they’ll probably start getting problems in only two or
three.”
“Okay, well, that gives us some time to save the rest of the galaxy.”
“Save the galaxy?!” gasped Kerry and Jerry.
“Save it from whom?” asked Tammy.
“My father... and Barcla the Hoard... and all those other galactic financiers... and to save it from
its own weakness and foolishness. Not a word of this to anyone aboard my father’s ship,
understood?”
“Understood. But hey, Barcla the Hoard lent money to Bacchanalia, too.”
“He did? Imperial Credits or its own currency.”
“Imperial Credits. Does that make it better?”
“Did he sell you things?”
“Yeah, the brewery and surf-boards.”
“Then that probably makes things a whole lot worse! Now, I don’t know what you’re plans are,
probably to get back to your home planets, and I don’t know what my father’s plans are for you.
Myself, I have a simple mission - to forestall my father, Barcla the Hoard and all the rest of the
money-grabbing parasites of the galaxy, and to prevent the eruption of the Empire into civil war. I
would welcome your assistance, but it must be freely given.”
“And next weekend?” joked Jerry.
“Count me in!” declared Tammy.
“And me!” added Kerry.
“Okay, I guess I’m in too,” affirmed Jerry.
Mark put our his hand, Tammy took it, Kerry laid hers on top and Jerry laid his on top of hers
and they all pumped their hands up and down.
“Ah, Mark!” boomed Nathan West, striding into the docking bay and seeing the little gathering
in the waiting area. “When I said entertain our guests, I did not mean teach them to dance! Come
along, let’s get aboard. We don’t want to keep the Emperor waiting!”
52
Chapter 20
Even at supra-light speeds, the hyper-drive jump to their destination would take them several
standard galactic days, so they were all assigned quarters aboard the Western Leader and Mark
settled down to create the identity cards that his new friends would need at the heart of Empire.
Theoretically, as supposed citizens of the Empire, as opposed to exiles on Restricted Planets,
they would need Imperial IDs, but the IDs that Western Credit issued to its staff were, to all
practical purposes, as good as, if not better than, those carried by most Imperial citizens. Mark
himself took on the job of creating them.
A tiny particle of skin tissue was taken from each of the three and placed in a tiny compartment
on the starship’s auxiliary computer. Here their respective DNAs would be analysed and a forty-six
digit number/letter combination would be produced for each of them which would constitute their
own individual ID number. Only identical twins had a forty seventh digit, a suffix of A or B, to
separately identify them. Mark produced Kerry’s and Jerry’s, each with their long numbers shown
in visual form as five lines of numbers and letters, together with a magnetic code strip built into the
card.
When doing Tammy’s, however, he paused. It had been explained to him, when his own ID card
had been created, that much of the code would be identical to his father’s, as he carried much of his
father’s DNA, the other half would differ, being that DNA that had come to him from his mother.
As the numbers and letters came out, he noticed that many of the combinations were familiar. Some
of the short meaningless words made by the letters on his own card, and which he had begun to
think of as himself in code form, were appearing on Tammy’s.
He quickly called up his own ID number and his father’s on the computer and put them into a
comparison screen with Tammy’s. There, highlighted by the computer software, half of his matched
his father’s, half of Tammy’s matched his own, and half of Tammy’s matched his father’s, although
in different parts to his own. He clicked on the conclusion tab, and asked for a reading for all three
pairings, even though he guessed what it would say.
For each of the three pairings the reading was: Parent/Child or Full Sibling.
He spun around on his chair and stared at Tammy long and hard. She looked back, smiled,
looked away, became uncomfortable, then moved away. Mark printed out the card with trembling
hands, then steeled himself to go to her.
He found her in the kitchen area, fixing herself a drink. He handed her her card.
“I’m sorry that I stared at you like that.”
“Right,” she laughed carefully, like one does in front of an employer, and then allowed herself to
admit: “It was kinda creepy.”
“Can I join you for a drink?”
“Sure, it’s your pappy’s ship.”
And yours, thought Mark.
“So you lived on Standardia, but you came from Tattoo One, originally?” He tried, but failed
miserably to make the gambit sound naturally conversational.
“Yes. Like I told you,” she replied, guardedly.
“Yes, you did. And you lived with your aunt and uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Who were related how?”
“My aunt was my mother’s younger sister.”
“Do you know what happened to your parents?”
“Yes. They both died when Aldershott... well, got blown away from what I’ve heard. Supposedly
I was staying on Tattoo One with my aunt and uncle and my twin brother...”
53
“You have a twin brother?!”
“Had one, I gather, although Aunt Matta wouldn’t say much about him. She didn’t know much
about him. He went to live with his father’s folks. They didn’t keep in touch. It’s a shame I couldn’t
have stayed on Tattoo One a while longer, I could have maybe looked for my brother.”
“No need for that, Tammy.”
“Why not? Say would you help me look for him? After we’ve done... y’know?”
“No need to.”
“No need to?!”
“Tammy. I am your brother!”
Kerry and Jerry had no resentment at all in not being fully included in the family reunion that
occurred on the Western Leader that day. They were only too delighted that Tammy, with whom
they had become friends in adversity in Barcla’s Palace, was also the daughter of the man in whose
power they undoubtedly were and the brother of the leader of their ‘secret mission’. They all also
learned that Tammy’s real name was Tamara and Mark’s was Marco. Tammy decided that she
preferred ‘Tamara’. Mark stuck with ‘Mark’. They both accepted Nathan’s suggestion to adopt his
own adopted surname of ‘West’.
Nathan West, by contrast was on strange new ground. He now had a family, even more so now
that he had his daughter with him. She reminded him so much of his darling wife whom he had lost
during the disaster of Aldershott.
After that dreadful day, with his children cared for by the different branches of their family, he
had applied himself to his career. That was the only thing that he really understood and the only
thing that blotted out that terrible sense of loss. Here now, he had the chance to get to know his
children, two intelligent and independent young people. He would have try to cease to be a galactic
financier and become something of a human being again. Then he reminded himself that he needed
to talk to Kerry and Jerry about his new ‘acquisition’ in the form of Bacchanalia, so he would not
want to become too much of a human being.
That ‘evening’ was a pleasant one for the passengers aboard the Western Leader. Neither Mark
nor his father was much of a raconteur, neither their characters nor their life experiences lent
themselves to it, but Jerry more than made up for it as he related tales of drunken exploits on
Bacchanalia, and Tamara held her own by telling of the peculiarities of Standardia, and Kerry
laughed loudly at everything.
Then as the ‘evening’ drew to its close, and as tiredness and the effects of alcohol settled, there
occurred one of those sombre moments that pops up almost as an inevitable antidote to the
merriment just before.
“Father,” asked Mark quietly. “What did happen to Aldershott?”
“Aldershott? You mother died on Aldershott.”
“So I gather, but what exactly happened? People talk about how it just blew up.”
Nathan West steeled himself. He knew that this moment would come sooner or later, and a part
of him was glad that it had come sooner. Perhaps it would be cathartic to reveal the cause of the
pain, the anger and the hate that had gnawed away inside him for so long. Now here was his son,
with his daughter looking on, innocently asking how their mother had died.
“It was during the Drone Wars.”
“The Drone Wars?”
“Yes, there were rogue planets within the Galactic Union, in the days before the Empire, planets
who envied the success and well-being of other planets within the Union, which were strong and
rich and impressive. These rogue planets built Drones, mechanical soldiers, battle-droids if you
like, to make war on their neighbours and to capture and control unclaimed planets, some even used
54
brain-washed organics and sent them off with bombs strapped to them. There was a Coalition
against the Drone-makers, or rather against their leaders, the war-makers. It was a war against war.
“The Coalition was lead by the U-Sector Federation, which was the biggest of the pre-Empire
federations in the galaxy. Certainly it was the most militarily powerful and most technologically
advanced. Aldershott and many other planets were part of the Coalition. To destroy the war-makers,
the U-Sector Federation built a gigantic space-station which contained a neutron reactor whose
power could be channelled into a single laser. It was designed to destroy a Star-cruiser with a
second’s burst, or take out a town on a planet... It was never meant to be fired with a full sustained
burst for that... that would destroy an entire planet. It was hugely expensive. The Federation had to
borrow massively to build it. Officially it was called the Destructor Station, but the wits and
satirists called it the Debt Star. It was the ultimate weapon.”
Nathan paused and drank deeply from his glass before continuing.
“The current thinking is that some agents of the Drone planets got themselves on board the Debt
Star. That was not hard. It needed so many people to man it that they were recruited from all over
the place. They must have reconfigured some of its basic computer systems, which were so
massively complex that no one understood it all. It was fired for its first and only time. It’s target
was wrong, and it fired full blast. It hit... it destroyed Aldershott!”
“But I thought you said that Aldershott was on the same side as the U-Sector Federation, part of
the Coalition?”
“It was. It was the worst case of ‘friendly fire’ in galactic history.”
“But of course, you weren’t on Aldershott?” Mark mused, asking the totally pointless question
that pops up when one’s mind gets boggled.
“No,” said his father. “I wasn’t, or I would not be here now. No, I was aboard the Debt Star.”
“What?!”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Because... because it was my loan that had paid for it. I just wanted to make sure that it
worked.”
Four young jaws dropped. There seemed nothing to say. Eventually something popped into
Mark’s head.
“I thought you said that we were headed to the Emperor... on business?” he managed, after a
long pause.
“We are,” confirmed his father.
“But if they already have this ultimate weapon, why do they need more money?”
“Because the Debt Star ended the Drone wars. No other planet wanted to face that awesome
power, but it was far too expensive to be kept in commission once the need for it was over. Its
weapons systems were removed and it was sold off, so that some of its cost, at least, was recouped.”
“Who’d buy a thing like that?”
“The Wimsey Corporation. It is now a theme park, I believe.”
Nathan West gazed blankly ahead. He had started, so he would finish his tale.
“So there we were. Under the leadership of President Palatable of the U-Sector Federation, the
Galactic Union became the Galactic Empire, with Palatable as Emperor and a wounded war-hero at
his side to add lustre to his reign. Supposedly, we now have peace and prosperity for all, but
Palatable does not know how to run an economy. He does not understand the Source...” He checked
himself. “He and Lord Bader know of nothing, but how to look cool in black, how to strike
dramatic poses and wave blasters and light-sabres around. They are obsessed with image and the
transient power of military domination. They do not understand money and therefore they will be
like putty in my hands.”
55
“So what is it you seek, father?”
“Only I and others like me have the understanding to rule the galaxy, and so we will, once we
have all the planets and the Imperial Government itself bound to us in chains of debt, then will
peace come to the galaxy.”
“When everyone in the galaxy is your debt-slave?”
“Yes.”
“Is that not a harsh way to run things?” asked Mark non-committally.
“Maybe, but necessary. What would you have for the galaxy, Mark? Peace and prosperity and
freedom for all?”
“Is that not desirable?”
“Desirable, yes, but impossible.”
“Why impossible?”
“Give people prosperity and freedom and what do they do? They bicker and squabble like
children. They gossip and bitch. Jealousies are aroused. One group, members of a different species
or cult, will consider itself hard done by compared to others, and wars will break out. Even within
sovereign states, wars break out. A Galactic Empire will not end wars. Give people peace and
freedom and what do they do? Nothing, save laze about on the beach drinking beer...”
Jerry blushed.
“... and then they get bored and drunk and they cost more to control than they usefully produce.
So, I will give people peace by controlling their capacity for war. I will give them a limited measure
of prosperity and I will allow them to feel free, so that they will not become resentful, but I will
control them all, through the invisible bonds of debt, and you, my children and my friends, will help
me.”
He did not, Mark noticed, say ‘please’.
Chapter 21
Whether the space-station that they found in front of them when the Western Leader emerged
into sub-light speed was anything like the infamous Debt Star, Mark did not know, but their
destination was shaped like a wheel, with the diameter of a small moon.
Near its hub were many docking bays and ports. Many of them, he could see, contained the
outlines of Star-cruisers and other vessels, large and small, that were under construction. Several
seemingly complete and operational Star-cruisers hung in lazy geo-stationary orbit over the Station,
to which they were connected by various long cables. The Constructor Station itself turned slowly
to give itself a natural gravity in its outer wheel rim. Fleets of freighters headed to and from ports
near the Station’s hub in an unending stream, whilst smaller personnel transporters and patrol craft
buzzed about, and squadrons of fighters were seen far off practising their dog-fight techniques.
Years ago, he would have been enthralled by the spectacle, but now, although he could identity
many of the craft, knew their histories and capabilities, he looked upon it all as just so much metal.
“Craft in Sector GFR 1576, identify yourself,” came over the intercom.
“Hello, patrol, this is Western Leader, code 145893, seeking clearance for landing on
Constructor Station Resolution.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“Clearance granted! Sir! We shall provide an escort, sir!”
A squadron of the squat Bow-fighters peeled away from the mock dog-fight, reassembled itself
into formation and fell in behind and around the Western Leader.
56
“Western Leader, this is the commander of 452 Squadron. Make your way to the near Hub and
we will see you safely there.”
“Thank you, but is that really necessary?”
“Orders, sir.”
“Very well.”
With the escort around them, every other vessel around the Station stayed well clear of the
Western Leader as it came in to dock with one of the hub ports.
The door of the Wests’ craft opened and there before them were a number of Imperial officials.
The chief amongst them stepped forward.
“Welcome to Constructor Station Resolution, Mr West, sir. The Emperor is ready to see you
now, sir,” he announced in clipped tones, for all the world as if Nathan West had been kicking his
heels in some ante-room.
“I and my four aides,” he motioned towards Mark, Tamara and his two bodyguards, “will see the
Emperor. I have other staff who are due time off ship.”
He gestured towards Kerry and Jerry and a couple of other crew-members.
“You have a recreation area?”
“Yes sir. That will be arranged.”
The official summoned a pair of pretty young women and gave them their instructions. Then he
led Nathan’s party to an elevator which would drop them down one of the spokes of the Station to
its living quarters in the rim.
Down in the rim, they stepped from the elevator and looked about them. The surroundings in this
part of the Station were much more comfortable than the docking area. They had left a functional
industrial area and come down to an elegant five-star hotel.
Also, whereas the docking area had contained white-suited technicians and low-ranking military
personnel in plain grey-green Imperial uniforms with few markings, such personnel that inhabited
this region were obviously higher ranking, with more red and blue dots on their rank badges.
They halted in front of a pair of elegant wooden doors. The official punched a code into the
control panel at the side of the doors. The doors slid open and they all walked through.
“Mr Nathan West and party,” announced the official.
The man did it for effect only, but it was a grand gesture.
A high backed leather chair was situated on a dais, the back was towards them. Above was a
large window, through which could be seen the two nearest spokes leading up towards the hub and
all the activity that that part of the Station contained. At one side of chamber, stood a desk with a
discreet huddle of officials sitting behind it, each making sure that he looked busy. All around the
chamber stood red-cloaked and helmeted members of the Imperial Bodyguard.
The chair swung around to reveal a figure in a dark voluminous cloak which concealed his face.
Dark mysterious cloaks are obviously this year’s thing, thought Tamara, who was beginning to try
to understand the mysteries of fashion.
The figure stood up and made its way slowly down the steps of the dais. At the side of the room,
the officials at the desk also stood up, consciously at attention.
“Welcome to Constructor Station Resolution, Mr West,” said the Emperor.
“Thank you, My Master,” replied Nathan.
‘My Master’ was the correct address for the Emperor. Most of his followers said it with deep
unction in their tones. West pronounced it as if it was just a name.
“You have more followers in your train, I see,” continued the Emperor, and then a joke occurred
to him. “Are you breeding them, Mr West?”
“Yes, My Master. Here are my son and daughter.”
“Ah, oh, I see.”
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The Emperor was momentarily taken aback so he pursued another channel.
“There is something quite magnificent about an empire girding its loins for war. Do you not
agree, Mr West?”
“War is not my business, My Master.”
The Emperor raised a quizzical eyebrow. Unfortunately due to his enveloping cloak, it could not
be seen and the subtle irony that he had hoped to convey was quite lost.
“Business, yes. To business, then.”
The Emperor turned way from his visitors and walked towards a side room that was laid out with
a large oval-shaped table. The chief official gestured to the West party to follow, and various other
officials scurried after them into the room.
The Emperor seated himself on one side of the table. Sombre suited officials placed themselves
at his right and left hands, others stood behind him. Nathan sat opposite him, Mark and Tamara on
either hand, his bodyguards behind.
“The Empire needs money for the military. Rumours abound of impending rebellion,” began the
Emperor, without preamble.
“How much did you have in mind?” answered West.
“My officials consider that fifteen billion will be required this year to enable us to execute our
military expenditure plans.”
Nathan nodded as if this was entirely appropriate. He steepled his fingers and gazed into the
distance in a studied look of consideration.
“You will be able to raise that sum or should I seek further sums elsewhere?” asked the
Emperor.
“I have both the money that you need to borrow and a military hardware manufacturing
capability, My Master. If you secure money from elsewhere, you will also need to negotiate for
your hardware needs. I can supply both.”
“Indeed, Mr West?”
“In short, My Master, I can give you more bangs for your buck than anyone else.”
“I see. Most convenient. You could, then, I presume, build a new Destructor Station?”
A muscle twitched in Nathaniel’s cheek.
“A new Debt Star?”
“Yes. Since that is what the popular press chooses to call it.” sneered the Emperor.
“Why not requisition the old one?” asked West
“Because it is now owned by the Wimsey Corporation and they own half of the popular press. Its
main neutron-laser channel is now the ultimate thrill-ride, so I am told. It’s called ‘Wipe-out’, or
some such stupid name. Can you imagine the head-lines? ‘Emperor Snatches Children’s Playground
to Wage War!’.”
“Very well, I can build you another one. Do you want the same specifications as before?”
“No. Technology has advanced these twenty years. It must be bigger and better.”
“With more knobs on?”
“Yes. Lots more detail. The old model was too plain by half.”
“It shall be so, My Master, but it will take years to complete. Would not conventional forces be
more suitable?”
“We will have more conventional forces as well, Mr West. Our first Star-cruiser battle fleet is
preparing for commission as we speak.”
“Please, My Master, how many planets are in open rebellion, as yet?”
“None as yet, Mr West.”
“So the battle fleets will not be intending to attack anyone yet?”
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“Not yet. Their purpose at the moment is to look good for the HoloNet cameras. I shall review
them Myself. I was thinking of maybe one Saturday night?”
“Tuesday gets the best viewing figures, My Master.`
“Tuesday it shall be.”
“So the existence of the battle-fleets is to make some planets think twice about this rumoured
rebellion, My Master?”
“Yes, some, but by no means all. This rebellion will serve a useful purpose. It will remind
everyone in the galaxy...” He paused to look meaningfully at West. “... that I am the ultimate power
in this Empire. We want the rebellion, but just a small one. One that is easily crushed.”
“I see.”
“Yes, and We need some more wounded war heroes about the place. It helps make people feel
good about the Empire and makes them work harder in their miserably dull routines.”
“Very well. I shall, of course, require to know the destinations of any expeditions by the battlefleets, My Master.”
“You will require...?! You get above yourself, Mr West. That will be highly confidential
information.”
“But if you attack my investments, I shall not be able to finance the Empire’s war effort, My
Master.”
“Ah yes, I see.”
Just then one of the officials behind the Emperor leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
“Here? Yes. Bid him enter,” bid the Emperor.
A large Imperial soldier entered the room. He was pushing a wheel-chair. In the wheel-chair sat
an even larger man. His head was encased in a shiny black helmet with a grim breath-mask
covering his face. A long black cloak draped down behind the chair, but it could not disguise the
fact that the man lacked arms below the elbows and legs below the knees.
“So Lord Bader, you have a situation report?”
“Yes, My Master.”
The wounded war-hero paused and his mask turned to look at the financier.
“It would seem,” murmured the Emperor without pleasure, “that We must share this information
with Our banker, Lord Bader.”
“Yes, My Master. As You wish. I have a report that Macarooine has denied entry to one of our
troop transports.”
“Macarooine,” mused the Emperor. “Is that not the site of the new ground-troop training
ground.”
“Yes, My Master,” confirmed the wounded hero of the Drone Wars. “The Macarooine Central
Council say that the agreement for use of their planet for troop training has not been finalised.”
“That sounds a bit rebellious to Me, Lord Bader. Macarooine must be secured immediately!”
“Yes, My Master.”
“Ahem. If I might just say,” said Nathan, “I have substantial holdings in the Macarooine RealEstate Corporation. If I threatened to sell, unless they continue to permit the troop training, the fall
in share values would effect the Corporation and the planet’s economy. I’ll have a word with the
Chief Executive.”
“Right, thank you, Mr West. Suspend operations on Macarooine for the moment. Lord Bader.”
“So you don’t want me to launch a full-scale ground assault on Macarooine, My Master?” asked
a disappointed Lord Bader.
“Only as part of a pre-arranged training schedule, Lord Bader, in consultation with the
Macarooine Real-Estate Corporation.”
“Yes, My Master.”
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“What else, have you for Us, Lord Bader?”
“Our Patrol Ships have reported the construction of Star-cruisers instead of freighters in the
Constructor Station orbiting the planet Harlooff, My Master. These Star-cruisers have not been
authorised by ourselves...”
“Ah, that’s why they wanted to expand their facilities,” smiled West.
“So they must be for the rebels!” decided the Emperor. “Yes, then that must be Our first target,
Lord Bader.”
“Ahem. Supposing I just threaten to withdraw my credit facilities from them, My Master?”
suggested West.
“Mmm. What, and not attack them?”
“If they stop building these Star-cruisers, My Master, there would not be any point.”
“Oh, very well, Mr West!”
“I was hoping to use my specially adapted Bow-fighter, My Master,” moaned a peeved Lord
Bader.
“That will have to wait, Lord Bader. Have you anything else for Us?”
“Yes, My Master, there’s a report from a Patrol in the Outer Rim of the Z-Sector.”
“The Z-Sector! I did not think there were any civilisations that far out.”
“It is a Restricted Planet, My Master, the planet Bacchanalia.”
“And what are they doing?”
“Drinking beer and surfing, My Master.”
“So? Apart from a twinge of jealousy, Lord Bader, I cannot see the problem.”
“They have been spotted using Imperial Credit notes, which are, of course, forbidden...”
“Ahem,” coughed Nathaniel politely. “I know this planet, My Master, and I know the extent of
the problem. They only have some twelve hundred Credits in total. They are no threat.”
“No, indeed, only twelve hundred... Have you been trading with this Restricted Planet, Mr
West?”
“No, not I, My Master, but I was aware that trading had occurred, so I have taken steps to
remove the Imperial Credits...”
“But they have broken the rules, they must be punished!”
“It won’t look good on the HoloNet, My Master.”
“It won’t?”
“It is a tiny population.”
“So we just send in one troop transport. Just a couple of those all-terrain walkers, the ones that
look like elephants, and just one battalion of Stormtroopers...?”
“Against a hundred unarmed settlers?”
“Mm. No, you’re right. Very well, Mr West. What’s next, Lord Bader?”
“That’s it, My Master. Three reports of violations. Three opportunities to display the military
might of the Empire!”
“Your diligence does you credit, Lord Bader. There will be other opportunities, I am sure,” the
Emperor said soothingly, then looked across the table at his banker. “Mr West, thank you for the
loan, but please stop butting in when we are trying to get a decent little war going! Anyone would
think that it is you who runs this Empire, instead of Me!”
Nathan West shrugged.
“If you don’t want war, Mr West, I am surprised that you are so keen to lend Us money for the
military.”
“Assisting the Empire is my duty, My Master.”
“Yes, and looking good in front of Imperial battle fleets is My duty, Mr West. How else do I get
to look glorious and imperious?”
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“You could try changing Your wardrobe, My Master,” suggested Tamara.
“When I want your opinion, young lady, I’ll ask for it! Thank you for trying, Lord Bader. Oh, by
the way, how are your allergies these days?”
“Better, now that I have this mask, My Master.“
“But I see your prostheses are still causing problems.”
“I am having another fitting this afternoon, My Master.”
“So, what was wrong with the last ones?”
“The arms chafed my stumps and the legs made me walk like a duck. Could I suggest, My
Master, that we increase the Health Service budget?”
“You can suggest it, Lord Bader, but I can’t do it. I’m not made of money, you know. We need
every penny for the military.”
“Even so, My Master, I need good quality prostheses...”
“Lord Bader, there is a war on, you know! Or at least there would be if West here didn’t keep
sticking his oar in!”
Chapter 22
Their conference with the Emperor completed, Nathan’s party was directed to the Station’s
recreation centre for a bite to eat and a chance to unwind from the exertions of the day. Here they
found Kerry and Jerry window shopping in the Station’s mall. They were all feeling hungry so
Nathan led them to the mall’s most upmarket dining facility.
Other people passing by gave them barely a glance, for there were many other civilians around
and about, traders, pilots, administrators, as well as the staff who manned the mall’s facilities.
An old man was mopping the floor as they walked by and his mop caught Tamara’s foot. He
glanced up to profusely apologise and then came squarely to attention.
“Your Grace!”
Tamara stopped and looked at him, she laughed nervously.
“That’s okay, no problem.”
“Oh sorry miss, just for moment, I though you were someone else, but you can’t be. She died on
Aldershott.”
“Aldershott? Did you say Aldershott? What do you know about Aldershott?” asked Tamara
quickly.
“I come from there, miss, it’s my home planet, like. Can’t go back, of course...”
Mark came back to find his sister.
“Is there a problem, Tamara?”
“No, Mark, this gentleman’s from Aldershott.”
“Really? Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Mark putting his hand out.
“Oh, I ain’t really no gentleman,” said the old man bashfully taking Mark’s hand. Then he
thought for a minute. “But you’d be too young to know Aldershott. It must be twenty years ago
now.”
“Listen, can we meet up sometime? I’d love to hear about Aldershott.”
“And I’d love to tell you about it. Come down to the caretaker’s office and ask for old Ken. I’m
always about. Got nowhere else to go.”
“Bye, Ken, see you later.”
After eating, Nathan announced that he wanted to check out the Western Credit office on the
Station. He intimated that Mark at least and possibly Tamara would like to join him. Tamara said
that she’d like stay with Kerry and Jerry and do some shopping. Nathan smiled indulgently and
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gave her a cash card with more credits on it than she would be likely to want. He left with Mark in
tow.
“Oh, great, I saw this wonderful little shop, with some gorgeous things,” gushed Kerry when she
realised that they now had some serious spending power.
“Fine, Kerry, you do the shopping, I want to see an old cleaner,” said Tamara.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Just buy me something that you think will suit me, but not a black cloak. I know
that they’re the ‘in’ thing, but they’re not my thing. See you later.”
Down on the lowest level of the station, Tamara found the old man without difficulty, and he
politely motioned her to be seated on one of the rather grubby plastic chairs that served for furniture
for the mall’s cleaning staff.
“Right,” he said, “best introduce myself, the name’s Ken Wannabee.”
“Pleased to meet you, Ken, I’m Tamara, Tamara West.”
Since she had always felt estranged from her uncle’s surname, Tamara found that it was really
easy to use her father’s.
“Tamara. That is a pretty name, sums up Aldershott, does that name, you know.”
“Really?”
“And that young man of yours, is he your... er, you know?”
“He’s my brother, my twin brother”
“Oh, your twin brother. The Queen had twins, you know? Boy and a girl, just like you and your
brother. There is a rumour that they wasn’t on Aldershott when it... well, got destroyed.”
“The Queen, you mean the Queen of Aldershott?”
“Yes. You must have heard of her?”
“Not really, my aunt never used to talk about Aldershott. She said it was best left in the past.”
“Your aunt?”
“Yes, I was brought up by my aunt and uncle, my mother died when Aldershott... you know?”
“And your father?”
“Oh, he’s a... he travels a lot.”
“So he wasn’t on...”
“No. He’s still alive. He’s here, but he hasn’t said much about Aldershott, and I only met him a
couple of days ago. It’s long a story.”
“Yes? But I have to say that you do remind me very much of our late Queen Heneria.”
“Heneria? That’s my mother’s name!”
“Yes? Here look, I’ve got a picture of the Queen on an old Aldershott currency-note. It’s a five
shilling one.”
He pulled the small slip of paper from his wallet where it had been lovingly kept for nearly
twenty years. Tamara looked at the picture and put a hand to her mouth. Then pulled out the picture
of her mother that she had brought from Standardia.
“Oh, look, you have got a photograph of the Queen!” declared old Ken laughingly.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Tamara, beginning to shake.
“Are you all right, love? You look a bit peaky to me.”
“Ken, Mr Wannabee, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I doubt it, love. I’m thinking that if I don’t clean the toilets on Level 2 in the next half an hour, I
am for the high jump. Is that what you are thinking?”
“No. I was kinda thinking something else. I didn’t know there were toilets on Level 2.”
“Oh, there’s toilets on every level, love, don’t you worry about that. But I have to be off now.
It’s been lovely talking to you. Here, I don’t know if you’re interested in the bank-notes and coins
62
of the pre-Empire days but we collect them down at the Numismatists Society. Come down this
evening, if you like. Staff Canteen number 3. Any time between seven and nine, I’ll be there.”
When Nathan and Mark returned from their business, Tamara was able to show off the nice
things that she, winking at Kerry, had bought. Nathan wanted to make some small purchases of his
own, and whilst he was out of ear-shot, Tamara started talking very quickly and urgently to her
three comrades.
“I want us to stay here a while longer,” she old them.
“What for? asked Mark. “I’ve been trying to think of some way we can stop father’s plans, but
he has everything sewn up.”
“Obviously you don’t want to kill him, right?” checked Jerry.
“That would not solve the problem. The Emperor would just turn to someone else. I was thinking
of trying to sneak into the Emperor’s quarters, to tell him not to borrow money but to create all the
Empire’s money himself, but in my mind’s eye I see myself being hauled off like some crazy fool,
with father coming to bail me and treating me like I’m some half-wit.”
“Mark, I think, I am not sure, but I think that I have discovered something truly amazing. I might
be able to confirm it this ‘evening’, down at Staff Canteen number 3, and I want you to come with
me,” said Tamara with a note of serious urgency in her voice.
“What? Father was talking about flying out. He has places to go, and we can sleep on the ship.”
“Trust me on this, Mark. I need this ‘evening’ at least.”
Tamara turned to Kerry and Jerry.
“Can one of you guys feign illness?”
“What sort of illness?” asked Kerry.
“Any sort. Something that will get you into the sick-bay for, say, 24 hours, and delay our
departure.”
“Women’s troubles?”
“Perfect!”
Kerry staggered, clutched her lower abdomen, groaned loudly and slumped to the floor.
“Oh, help! Somebody help us please!” called Tamara, as Mark and Jerry looked genuinely
aghast.
A paramedic team was soon on the spot. They lifted Kerry gently onto the stretcher.
“Don’t worry, Kerry, I’m with you. I’ll stick with you,” called Tamara. She looked at the
paramedics for confirmation. They nodded agreement and they all whizzed off to the Station sickbay.
When Nathan returned with his purchases, it was to receive the news that Kerry had been taken
ill, and that Tamara had gone with her to the sick-bay.
“Is it serious?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. It’s something that she sometimes gets. Time of the month,” said Jerry,
playing his part.
“And Tamara’s with her?”
“Yes, we just waited to tell you, then we were going to join them,” added Mark. He sensed that
his father would consider leaving the women, Kerry at least.
“Very well. I shall return to the ship. Let me know how she is.”
The Constructor Station, like similar installations, had no natural diurnal time periods, so an
artificial one was in place that corresponded with Imperial Standard Time. This was largely to
enable the senior officers and administrators to arrange mutually convenient dinner parties for each
another. Most lower ranks worked shifts that made such niceties irrelevant, but even so, the
‘evening’ was the time when most social activities occurred, open for those not actually on duty.
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That ‘evening’, Mark and Tamara left Kerry and Jerry playing their respective roles in the sickbay and went off in search of Staff Canteen number 3. They found it and entered.
Tamara spotted Ken Wannabee with a half dozen others sitting around a table, half-empty drinks
tumblers before them, comparing some of their latest acquisitions and discussing the various
peculiarities of each coin or note. Ken spotted his half-expected visitors and called them over.
Tamara spoke urgently to her brother.
“Mark. There’s something I’ve got to show you first. I should have shown it to you before, but
the last few days were such a rush, it just didn’t occur to me. Here, look at this photograph.”
“Who is she?”
“Aunt Matta always told me she was my mother, our mother, and I have no reason to doubt her.”
Mark held the photograph and gazed at it. He had never seem a picture of his mother before. His
aunt and uncle simply did not have one. He fought back the tears.
“Hello, Tamara, love. Hello, it’s Mark, isn’t it? We met before.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Sit yourselves down. Can I get you a drink at all? Not much of a selection, I’m afraid. Not like
the officers’ mess.”
“Ken, do you have that Aldershott currency-note?” asked Tamara.
“Yes, I do. He’d be interested, your brother. So were you actually born on Aldershott?”
“That’s right, and like you, we weren’t there when...”
“But your mother was?”
“Yes.”
Mark looked at the note, then he looked up and stared at his sister. She stared back.
“And Ken? You said that the Queen had twin children, a boy and a girl?”
“That’s right. You know, they’d be about your age now if they were still alive. Some people
reckon that they are, that they weren’t on Aldershott when... But you can’t go around believing such
silly tales can you?”
Mark turned the note over slowly in his hand.
“Very nice,” he managed to say. “A nice collector’s item but quite worthless now, of course.”
“Oh no. There you’re wrong. Aldershott notes are still legal tender.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. When the Empire was formed and the Imperial Credit was created as the galactic
currency, all the other money systems were given a set period to allow people to change to the new
currency before their money ceased to be legal tender and just became collector’s items, but
Aldershott shilling notes were never de-legalised. No, in fact, it was incorporated in the Imperial
decree that Aldershott shilling notes would remain forever legal tender throughout the Empire at the
exchange rate of twenty Aldershott shillings to one Imperial Credit. A bit of a memorial, I suppose.
But they’re actually worth more than their face value to collectors.”
Mark thought fast and furious.
“Who is, or was, authorised to issue Aldershott bank-notes?”
“Not bank-notes, currency-notes. They weren’t issued by any bank, but only by the Queen.”
“The Queen, not the King?”
“Aldershott never had a king. The crown only passed down through the female line, eldest
daughter of eldest daughter.”
“And she would do what to authorise and issue them?”
“I don’t know, but you see that her signature is on the note, like it was on every note.”
“So who ever is Queen of Aldershott is authorised to issue Aldershott currency-notes which are
legal tender throughout the Empire?” asked Mark slowly.
“Well, yes. If she wasn’t dead, of course.”
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“But if her daughter was alive...”
“Well, her daughter would now be Queen, of course...”
Mark and Tamara stared deeply into each other’s eyes.
“Are you two all right? You’re both looking a bit peaky, if you don’t mind me saying so. Now,
here’s an interesting note. It’s from the former Yewropian Federation of planets...”
But Ken’s voice went nowhere near either Mark or Tamara’s consciousness.
“We need to think,” said Mark.
“We need to find out as much as we can about Aldershott shillings,” added Tamara.
“Yes, Information first. Think later. So... er, Ken. Do you have any other Aldershott notes?”
“I also got a one and a ten, but they’re not such good quality.”
“How much do you want for them?”
“I don’t want to sell them. There’re the only bit of Aldershott that I’ve got left.”
“How much are they worth?”
“As collector’s items? The five is probably worth about three Imperial Credits, as it is in such
good condition, the one and the ten, maybe, one Credit each.”
“Would you take fifty Credits for all three?”
“Fifty Imperial Credits?”
At the size of the sum mentioned, all the other collectors turned to take a keener interest in their
young visitors. Then Ken stood up and gestured for Mark and Tamara to follow him.
“Come with me, if you please, young sir and miss.”
He waddled out of the canteen into the hallway. Mark and Tamara followed him. In the hallway,
the old man turned and studied them closely.
“Now, I apologise if I offend,” he began in his usual deferential manner. “But I would like to ask
you both some questions.”
“Fire away, Ken.”
“You say you that you were born on Aldershott, but that you left there when you were very
small?”
“Yes.”
“With whom were you staying?”
“My mother’s sister. She lived on Tattoo One.”
“And her name was?”
“Mattana.”
“And her husband’s name?”
“Dillan Woodsawyer.”
“The famous folk singer,” remarked Ken.
“Famous? I didn’t know he was famous.”
“Before your time. And your father’s name? His real name?”
“Anarkist Skyspotter. He then changed it to Nathan West.”
The old man glanced about to see that no one was about in the corridor, then he dropped to one
knee with a litheness that belied his age. He stood up, no longer a doddering old codger, but
possessed of the easy stance of the trained soldier.
“Your Grace, I am Colonel Kenyo Wannabee, formerly of the Aldershott Secret Service, now
entirely at your service.”
“What?!”
Chapter 23
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“You are, Your Grace, I have no doubt, Queen Tamara of Aldershott,” stated Colonel
Wannabee.
“We need to talk. Is there somewhere more private, Colonel?” said Mark.
“Certainly, Highness, my quarters, and if you don’t mind, I think we’d all better remain
incognito, for the time being.”
“Yes, Colonel, er, Ken, please just call me ‘Tamara’.”
Colonel Wannabee’s quarters were very small, a tiny room just big enough for a bed, a chair, a
table and a wardrobe, as befitted a humble cleaner on a crowded space-station. It possessed no
natural window out to the galaxy but it did possess, as a standard feature in all quarters, a computer
terminal. Tamara and Mark sat down on the bed.
“May I ask, Your Grace, how long you have known that you are the rightful Queen of
Aldershott?” asked the Colonel, taking the chair at the table.
“Known? Well, you just told me, but I began to suspect this afternoon in your office.”
“I suspected the moment I saw you, the two of you, with your father. I knew who he was, or is,
although I suspect that maybe not many other Aldershotti do. His marriage to your mother was very
brief, before... And he was just seen as this rather shadowy figure. Immensely wealthy even then, of
course, one of the wealthiest men on Aldershott and on his way to becoming one of the wealthiest
in the galaxy.”
“It’s been a crazy week, Colonel,” admitted Tamara. “Last week I was lost and alone in the
galaxy, then I discovered that my twin brother was both alive and with me and that the man who
took me from Barcla the Hoard was my father and was, as you say, one of the richest men in the
Empire, and now I discover that I am Queen of a planet, but a planet that was blown away twenty
years ago, so really I’m Queen of nothing.”
“Not so, Your Grace. There are many Aldershotti still around, many resigned themselves to
service with the Empire in one form or another, others just became independent operators, free
spirits, but we all look out each other. Not only that, but wherever we go in the universe, we are
received with the utmost kindness. The warmth of the memory of Aldershott is so strong throughout
the galaxy that it is almost tangible. Your Grace, you are Queen of many would-be devoted
followers, there are hundreds on this station alone, but more than that, you are... you could be the
symbol of hope.”
“Hope, colonel?” asked Tamara.
“If the feelings are so warm, colonel, why are you a cleaner?” asked Mark.
“I am working undercover, as it were.”
“Not for Aldershott, surely?”
“No, nothing will bring back home, but, Highness, there are many who regard the Empire as a
failure. It has brought peace of a sort, but at the expense of a curtailment of freedom and the
imposition of an oppressive taxation system. Taxes are high to pay for the Galactic Debt, and to pay
them, everyone is frantically working ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day. As well as to pay for their
own personal debts. There are plans by some planets to break away from the Empire.”
“We’ve heard that there are plans for a rebellion,” said Mark.
“You have?”
“We know who’s financing it, Barcla the Hoard. My father is financing the Empire’s military
build up.”
“Then join us, Your Grace, come and help lead the rebellion, be our figurehead and our symbol.
Many planets would flock to your cause!”
“No,” declared Mark. “That is not the way. It will lead to more war and destruction, and then
you will all just end up in hock to Barcla the Hoard.”
“There is no other way, Highness!”
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“There is another way. It is our intention to save the galaxy from tearing itself to pieces, not to
engage in such destruction. What do you know about money?”
“Money? It is ‘the sinews of war’,” quoted the soldier.
“Yes, it is vital for war, as it is vital for everything else, and he, or she, who issues and controls
the money supply controls everyone else who uses money.”
The colonel nodded without fully understanding, then he produced his Aldershotti currencynotes.
“Economics was never my subject. On the matter of money I would claim only an expertise on
Aldershotti currency-notes. These were my last connection with home, I studied them minutely, the
type of paper used, the different inks, the engraving techniques, the numbering system, how the
security and identification strip was made. Sitting here in my little room, it was one of the few
things that kept me sane.”
Mark wondered whether such nerd-like activity actually constituted sanity, but he kept his
counsel.
“What are you thinking, Mark?” asked Tamara.
“Just this, the Empire is on the verge of internal collapse through massive indebtedness, planets
owe taxes to the Imperial Government, and the Imperial Government, the planetary governments,
companies and even lowly cleaners in bed-sits owe money to the financiers, and it is all because of
an almost total reliance on IBDM.”
“On what?” asked the colonel.
“Interest-bearing debt money,” explained Mark “The only way that the galaxy as a whole will
ever clear its debts is to find another galaxy to off load them onto, because it takes more money to
clear an interest-bearing debt that the amount of the initial debt itself, the principle, and you can’t
have more money than the amount you have!”
“Really?” said the colonel, trying hard to follow.
“It would be all right if every penny earnt in interest was spent back into the economy,” Tamara
reminded her brother.
“That’s true, but if you’re fabulously wealthy, there are only so many star-ships you need, and if
you are really rich and really smart, what do you do with your money?” asked Mark.
“I don’t know, Highness,” replied the colonel, although he thought that a couple of squadrons of
star-fighters and maybe a Star-cruiser would not be a bad start.
“You use it as the basis for more lending,” explained Tamara.
The colonel smiled weakly. He still did not understand.
“Trust us, colonel,” asked Tamara.
The soldier shot to his feet and bowed his head in salute.
“I am yours to command, Your Grace!”
“Sure. I’ll just have to watch what I say.”
“Colonel, with your knowledge of Aldershott currency-notes, could you produce some?”
“I could, but it would be quite illegal, without the authority of the late Queen.”
“How about if you produced some with your new Queen’s face and signature on them?”
The colonel turned to gaze at Tamara. A broad smile of realisation spread slowly across his face.
“Yes, that would certainly be legal! If you gave me written authorisation, Your Grace?”
“Sure, writing I can manage.”
“Highness, are you planning to spend these new notes? Because they may not be accepted by
traders, one does not have to accept any note of any currency when selling. After all, a note might
be a forgery.”
“No, colonel, we are not going on a spending spree, not as such, anyway. No, we shall be in the
debt clearance business, and for that legal tender cannot be refused!”
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“How many shall you want, Highness?”
“Take the size of the Galactic Debt in Imperial Credits, multiply it by twenty, then add a few
more for luck.”
“So hundred shilling notes would be best?” suggested the colonel.
“I think so.”
“How soon do you want them?”
“Let’s see... We also need to arrange transport off this Station, I cannot see father approving of
our operations. Could you arrange that?” asked Mark.
“I shall see, Highness.”
“So we want as many notes produced as possible in the time it takes for us to get transport off
this Station.”
He remembered something else.
“Oh, and yes, we have a friend in the sick-bay. I guess they’ll keep her in ‘overnight’. Can we
get all that done by tomorrow ‘morning’?” he asked.
“We can but try,” said the colonel. “What is the alternative?”
“Do you enjoy your life here as a cleaner?” Mark asked him.
The colonel stared ahead for a moment. He was really not cut out to be a cleaner. Fifteen years,
and he was still only Grade 4. Maybe helping to save the galaxy was more his forte.
He turned to his computer and started tapping out e-messages to various Aldershotti whom he
knew. Some would provide the means necessary to produce some at least of the requested notes,
others were star-freighter captains, interplanetary traders, and members if the Imperial bureaucracy
whom he knew to be disaffected. Still more were just Aldershotti who would be glad to know that
Princess Tamara and her brother had indeed survived and that the Aldershotti now had a queen
again.
Mark turned to his sister.
“What now?”
“Catch our breath, I think. What’s your idea, Mark?”
“Simply to hire a starship and head off as fast as we can to those planets who most need our
help.”
“But flooding the galaxy with Aldershott shillings, won’t that produce inflation?”
“Not if we’re careful. Each planet will get the minimum it needs to solve its financial problems,
and we won’t give the money away, far less lend it bearing a rate of interest, we will buy things...
capital investment, if you like.”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to be spending?”
The colonel turned towards the twins and waited patiently.
“Yes colonel?” asked Mark
“People would like to see you, your Grace. Soon. Tonight if possible. Would 02.00 hours be in
order?
“Two o’clock in the ‘morning’?” queried Tamara.
“Yes. Where?” agreed Mark.
“Staff Canteen number 3. It should be quiet then. Also, your Grace, I need to take your
photograph and have an example of your signature.“
Tamara signed her name on a digital signature reader and posed for the shot that would soon be
appearing on the first new issue of Aldershott shillings for nearly twenty years.
The Colonel turned back to his terminal. Mark and Tamara resumed their conversation.
“You asked about spending and inflation?” he reminded himself. “We won’t be spending on
ourselves. I have not worked it out in detail, but here’s my initial thinking. When we find a planet
that needs our money to pay off its debts, we buy something with the money.”
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“Like what?”
“It depends on what they have to offer, maybe we buy their wilderness from them...”
“Their wilderness? To do what with?”
“To do nothing, to be a tangible asset, or at least to stop them wrecking it in their need to meet
their debts, I don’t know, I’m just trying to think... or if they build star-freighters, we buy a load of
star-freighters from them... Or if they have a lot people needing jobs, we hire them to... make things
that other planets need... using the star-freighters we bought to ship them there...”
“But if the other planet can’t pay for those things?”
“Then we just hope that they have some wilderness for sale! Or may be we make them interest
free loans. Let us see what is needed on each planet and what each one has to offer.”
“And that would prevent inflation?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it’s got to be better than war and rebellion across the galaxy!”
The colonel turned around in his chair.
“Your grace, Highness, I need to go out and make some personal visits.”
“Oh, sure, go ahead,” agreed Tamara.
“One other thing, if anything goes wrong, and you need to leave, head for dock 6B. I have
arranged transport. The captain knows to expect you.”
“Okay, otherwise we’ll see you in Staff Canteen number 3 at two o’clock,” said Mark.
Once the Colonel had left, Mark and Tamara also slipped out of his room and headed down to
the sick-bay. They were followed at a discreet distance by a figure who was an expert at the art of
covert surveillance, but his expertise was hardly warranted. Mark and Tamara had no notion that
they would be the subject of such interest, not yet at least.
In the sick-bay, Kerry was sitting up in bed with Jerry sitting on a chair at her bedside.
“How are you doing, Kerry?”
Kerry smiled the wan smile of the sickly and allowed her head to loll towards her visitors.
Everyone sucked their cheeks in to prevent themselves from giggling.
“I’m okay,” sighed the ‘invalid’. “They’ve given me some pain-killers, and done some tests.
They say they can’t find anything wrong. I tell them it is something I just get now and then, you
know... but they want to keep me in for 24 hours for observation.”
Mark looked up to the ceiling.
“You’re doing just great. Don’t anybody look anyone else in the eye when we’re in here.”
“Why not?” asked Jerry.
“Because you’ll start giggling,” explained Mark.
So, gazing at the walls, the door, the bed, anywhere than at each other, the four played out their
parts as invalid, worried boy-friend (sort of, you know), and concerned visitors. They all variously
attempted to make polite subdued conversation, but subjects were hard to come to mind.
“How’s things with you guys?” asked Jerry.
“Great. We’ve just discovered that Tamara is the rightful Queen of Aldershott,” said Mark
Kerry had to put her hand over her mouth and turn her face away to stop herself from laughing
out loud. She pretended to be in pain. Jerry stared fixedly at the wall opposite.
“I thought you said we weren’t supposed to make each other laugh?” he intoned.
“Yes. Sorry, about that, but I want you guys to be ready to move fast. I don’t know what’s going
to happen when, but things might, and we don’t want to leave you behind.”
“Your father wants to leave?”
“I don’t think we’ll be leaving with father,” explained Mark. “We’ve had an interesting meeting
and new plans have been made.”
Jerry turned to look at Mark momentarily, before remembering himself.
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“If anything goes wrong, head for dock number 6B and tell them you are friends of... of Colonel
Wannabee,” Mark instructed them.
“Right,” agreed Jerry. “Not the Queen of Aldershott, then?”
“Oh, that should work, too.”
Unable to stand the strain of their enforced seriousness any longer, Mark and Tamara left their
two companions and headed back to the mall. They found a Computer Cafe and, with drinks
ordered, settled down to do some studying. They looked up the history of Aldershott, its geography,
its people and customs.
They sopped up the information like a dry sponge. Its facts and figures, its ideas, culture and
lifestyle filled the great gaping voids of their own sense of emptiness. Once they could find nothing
more about Aldershott, they moved on to other areas of interest. They gulped down the information
like starving people at a feast.
“Are you two gonna be here all night?” joked the cafe assistant much later.
“No, sorry,” spluttered Mark.
“It don’t bother me, pal. We’re open twenty-four-seven, but I ain’t seen anyone scan through so
many sites as fast as you have.”
The assistant cheerfully collected some empty glasses and walked away grinning.
Mark checked the time: 01.49. Time to head for Staff Canteen number 3.
Walking along the now familiar corridor, they were stopped by a pair of uniformed Internal
Security officials.
“Your IDs, please,” they were asked.
They produced their Western Credit ID cards.
“Is there a problem?” asked Mark.
“No no, sir. Purely routine.”
The official read the cards with his card reader. He wondered why two people such as the Wests
would be down in the Station staff area.
“Are you lost, sir, ma’am?” he asked politely.
“No. We... we arranged to meet a friend. He works here on the Station.”
“Ah. You know where you are going?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Goodnight to you, sir, ma’am,” concluded the official, raising his hand to the peak of his cap.
There was a crowd of about thirty people in the canteen when Mark and Tamara entered. As they
did so, the hubbub quietened and everyone stood to their feet. Tamara glanced at their faces. All
were well into middle age, some were positively old.
The colonel was there and he moved quickly to meet them and bowed briefly before his queen.
Then standing respectfully to one side, he addressed the crowd. It consisted mainly of people who
had deliberately come for this meeting, but there were a few small knots of ‘night-shift’ workers
just there having their lunch.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have satisfied myself that these young people are the lost Princess
Tamara and Prince Marco of Aldershott, and that consequently, the Princess Tamara is our rightful
queen. Does anyone have anything they wish to say or to ask?”
There was a low murmur among the assembly, as people considered how they might establish
the couple’s bona fides.
“What was your mother’s birthday?” called out one man.
“I don’t know,” admitted Tamara.
Mark shrugged.
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“Think, ladies and gentlemen,” spoke the colonel again. “They were mere toddlers when they
lost their mother, and they have been told very little about Aldershott or their mother. I say I am
satisfied, but let each decide for themselves. Ask them about their aunts and uncles.”
“Did your uncle play the guitar?” asked one.
“My uncle Dillan did, yes,” agreed Tamara.
“Can you sing one of his songs for us?”
“Oh, I can’t sing.”
“Oh, go on!” they all urged.
“Okay, but really, my voice isn’t that good....”
Tamara thought quickly which of her uncle’s songs she could best managed, then, pushing
doubts out of her mind, allowed the gentle harmony to fill the room.
“In the mists of ancient time when the world was young and free
I learnt the ways of ancient days, the ways that meant to be
Let us share the joys of living, for the joy of life is free
And the joy of life is greater when it’s shared by you and me.
“Growing up like all children, I would hope and yearn and be
Taking all at the moment, I took everything for me
Let us share the joys of living, for the joy of life is free
And the joy of life is greater when it’s shared by you and me.
“But I changed as I grew older and I learned as well to give
And the more I loved the giving, the longer I did live
Let us share the joys of living, for the joy of life is free
And the joy of life is greater when it’s shared by you and me.
“For the love of life is all to me and the love of me is you
In the changing and the giving and in everything I do
Let us share the joys of living, for the joy of life is free
And the joy of life is greater when it’s shared by you and me.”
Soon, in their minds, all of the crowd were back in the time when they were young, life was
fresh and new and exciting and they could enjoy the easy rhythms and idealistic sentiments of
Dillan Woodsawyer. It was not surprising that he had turned the head of the young Princess
Mattana and she, renouncing her royal status, had eventually left Aldershott to live with the love of
her life.
The crowd had very quickly joined in with the well-known song, and Tamara found herself
simply leading them. The applause that erupted when the singing ceased was far in excess of what
Tamara’s talents merited, as she would only too readily concede. There were tears in many people’s
eyes. The song was not from Aldershott, for that planet had never been Dillan Woodsawyer’s home,
but they all remembered the time when the song was popular across the galaxy as a time when
Aldershott, their home, their family and their friends still existed.
Then a man dropped to one knee, as did another, then two women, and then all of the crowd,
save those having their lunch, were on their knees.
“I think everyone is convinced,” called the colonel.
“Sure am,” came a voice. “Dillan Woodsawyer had an awful voice too!”
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A figure who had been watching from the shadows of the door moved towards an internal
communicator. He tapped in the code that would connect him to the Western Leader. His report was
brief but sufficient.
The colonel stepped forward.
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Some of you may be wondering, ‘What now?’ Our Queen is
restored to us, but Aldershott is gone forever... So where do we go from here? Well, it would seem
that her Grace and his Highness have plans of their own, plans, which they tell me, and I happy to
believe them, will be for the betterment of the galaxy. Many of you have your own plans and your
own lives to lead, each is free to follow his or her own course. I will say only two things. Firstly
those who wish to join the Queen, the Prince and myself on our mission will be very much
welcomed. Secondly, I would ask all of you, to start to spread the word, to everyone you know, on
this Station and around the galaxy, that the Princess Tamara of Aldershott has been found and
proclaimed Queen!”
Some of the Aldershotti had places to go and jobs to do. They left the canteen, but many more
stayed on. Some merely to get up close to their new Queen, to touch her. Tamara shook the hands
of nearly everyone there, including some who had just popped in for lunch. Some discreetly wanted
to discover the nature of their Queen’s mission. A half dozen, put themselves in her service and
were given instructions to head for dock 6B. Others had business with the colonel, whilst some just
wanted to catch up with old friends.
There was still a fair crowd about when the door opened suddenly and in strode Nathan West. If
any of the Aldershotti had any lingering doubts as to Tamara’s identity, they were dispelled now.
This was undoubtedly the wealthy but rather shadowy financier who had married their late Queen.
“Mark! Tamara! What is going on here?” he asked, rather more sternly than he intended
“Ah, good evening, sir. Welcome to our little gathering,” began the colonel slipping into
’cleanerese’.
“Well? Are you not going to tell your father?” West said rather more soothingly.
Tamara faced him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?!” she demanded of her father.
“I am not sure that this is a good time...” murmured the colonel, but he was utterly ignored.
“Tell you what?” asked her father.
Tamara held up the photograph of her dead mother.
“My mother, yes?”
“Yes,” Nathan conceded.
Tamara held up an Aldershott currency-note alongside the photograph.
“I think we should have been told!” she said.
“So your mother resembled the late Queen?”
Tamara’s fury knew no bounds.
“No, father! She was my mother!”
Nathan West said nothing. He could not deny it.
“Why didn’t you tell us that she was Queen of Aldershott?”
“Because she is dead and Aldershott is gone, and nothing, nothing I can do can bring her back.”
He glared around at the watching crowd.
“What foolish notions have these people been putting into your heads?”
The crowd glared back, and he saw the distrust in their eyes. He was from Aldershott himself
and knew his people’s love of sentiment and he despised them for it. Just as he despised the
sentiment that he sometimes discovered within himself.
“You can’t live in the past. You have to move on,” he told them.
“We are moving on, father,” said Mark soothingly.
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“Good, I shall expect you back at the ship within the hour. We are leaving!”
“No, father,” said Tamara. She thought fast. “We can’t leave Kerry in the sick-bay.”
Nathan snorted his contempt.
“She has to be there another twelve hours at least. I’m not leaving without her.”
Nathan glanced his watch.
“Very well, you have until 3 o’clock this afternoon,” he said, and with that he turned on his
heels.
Hardly had he left when Staff Canteen number 3 received more visitors, a party of the Internal
Security Department arrived, led by an officious young officer.
“What is going on here?” asked the officer politely.
“Oh, just a gathering of the Aldershott Reunion Society, sir,” mumbled Ken Wannabee.
“It’s three o’clock in the ‘morning’?”
“I know sir, but back on Aldershot, was we there, it would’ah been eight o’clock in the evening.”
The officer considered this. How does one behave when one’s planet gets blasted into
nothingness? he wondered. Certainly he’d heard that the surviving Aldershotti had some strange
rituals and customs. Finally, he nodded politely, and with a touch of reverence. He led his men out
to further patrol the labyrinthine corridors of the Station’s lower levels.
He was just the next level down when the full meaning of Ken’s words hit him. Aldershott was a
planet. It would have 24 time zones. It would only be eight o’clock in the evening in one of them.
Without changing the pace of his walking, he lead his men back to Staff Canteen number 3. It was
empty save for two electricians from Corelfornia who were puzzled and alarmed to be interrogated
during their lunch.
The young officer decided that he would report the gathering, innocuous though it might indeed
have been, but he would not relate the old man’s explanation for the strange hour of the meeting.
The colonel, still in the guise of Ken Wannabee, the cleaner, Mark and Tamara went back to the
colonel’s quarters to plan their next moves. The colonel sat down at his computer and passed a few
more e-messages. Mark and Tamara slumped onto his bed in a state of wretched tiredness.
“Here,” said the colonel, “you need to sleep. Your Grace, the bed is yours. Your Highness, I
have my old army bed somewhere.”
After sorting out his guests’ sleeping arrangements, the colonel watched his terminal and waited
for the replies to return. They soon came back and the colonel considered them.
“Good,” he said. “We should be already to go by noon.”
Mark and Tamara were fast asleep.
Chapter 24
Information is vital to anyone wishing to know what is going on in the world, but too much
information causes problems in sorting the dross from the interesting stuff. In Internal Security
Central Control, the intelligence officers dealt with so much dross every hour of every day that the
effect was mind-numbing, but this morning as one officer was coming to the end of his shift and
looking forward to a nice meal, he found some reports that were rather more unusual than the norm.
He had read the report of a purchase of an unusual type of paper from central stores, the amount
was quite small, but someone was doing something other than printing some letters, and he had
picked up a report that a private printer down in the commercial sector was working through the
‘night’. This was probably some jerk getting his fanzine late to press, thought the officer.
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He was rather more puzzled to read the amount of excited chatter over the station’s internal
communications network about the re-emergence of the Queen of Aldershott. The Princess Tamara
had been found alive, it seemed, and accepted as Queen by a gathering of Aldershotti. The officer
would not have been human had he not felt a twinge of sympathy and pleasure at the news. Good
luck to the Aldershotti, he thought. Then there was this report of a gathering in Staff Canteen
number 3 of the Aldershott Reunion Society.
“Sir,” he called to his senior. “I have a report of a gathering. It’s of the Aldershott Reunion
Society, yet I have nothing on file to show of this society’s existence... and sir, there’s a lot of
chatter about the fact that the Princess Tamara of Aldershott has been found alive.”
“Really? Do we have a picture of her?”
“Yes sir. I’ll do an identification scan, sir.”
The two men watched and waited as the computer compared the picture of Tamara that had
circulated amongst the excited Aldershotti through their internal communications links with those
of various young human females that it had in its data banks.
“Nearest comparison, sir, is one Tamara West, sir, arrived on the Station yesterday with her
father and brother. Her father is Nathan West, sir, head of Western Credit.”
“Bring up the file of the Aldershott royal family,” the senior man ordered.
They both read that the late Queen Heneria of Aldershott had married the financier Nathan
West, a fact that not all Aldershotti would have known or remembered, still less other-worlders.
So there it was. Starring them in the face. Something odd was happening, but Nathan West was a
big fish. The Security Commander felt out of his depth. He checked his official notifications about
the arrival of the Queen Tamara, but there was nothing.
He considered the matter. Aldershott was not a threat. It no longer existed. The surviving
Aldershotti were largely valued servants of the Empire. There was no cause for alarm, and yet...
He swallowed hard.
“Alert the Lord Bader,” said the Commander quietly, but he sounded less sure of himself than he
had intended.
“Sir?”
“Do it.”
“Yessir.”
Within the half hour, the massive black-cloaked and masked form of Lord Bader stalked into the
Security Centre. He had all his new prosthetic limbs fitted, and he walked, the Security Commander
was pleased to notice, much less like a duck than he had before.
“You called me, Commander?” rumbled Bader ominously.
“Yes, Lord Bader. It concerns Mr Nathan West, sir.”
“What of him?”
“His daughter is with him, my Lord.”
“I know that.”
The Commander began to feel decidedly nervous.
“She is also the daughter of the late Queen Heneria of Aldershott, my Lord.”
“I know that.”
The Commander began to shake and his palms became sweaty.
“She has been acknowledged as Queen of Aldershott by many surviving Aldershotti, my Lord.”
“That I did not know. Hmm. You did well to call me, Commander.”
The man almost collapsed with relief.
“Give me what information you have,” rumbled Bader.
The tall figure considered the information that was passed to him. His grim breath-mask allowed
no emotion to show as he weighed up the factors in this curious new situation. He well knew the
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sympathies that existed throughout the Empire to the thousands of surviving Aldershotti. Their
Queen, acknowledged as such, would be a great threat to the Empire, or indeed, a great asset.
Finally, he decided his move.
“Have a Diplomatic Squad meet me at the West’s ship at 10.00 hours. Do not permit the ship’s
departure until 10.15.”
At ten o’clock that morning, Mark and Tamara were back in the mall, where at the colonel’s
urgent suggestion, Tamara was buying a wardrobe of clothes. She would need a smart business suit
and something flowing and formal, he had told her. Tamara had neither the interest nor experience
in buying smart clothes so they made hard work of it, whilst the colonel kept a weather eye on them
as he went about his cleaning with mop and bucket.
At the same time, up in docking area a small delegation lead by Lord Bader stood in front of the
Western Leader. The party was noticed by the crew and Nathan West stepped down the ramp.
“Lord Bader, and to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“A mere courtesy call, Mr West, I would have wished to have welcomed you yesterday, but I
was not properly... dressed.”
“Indeed, Lord Bader.”
“And their Highnesses, Mr West. The Princess Tamara and the Prince Marco are well, I trust?”
“Highnesses, Lord Bader? Aldershott is in the past. Let it remain there.”
“Even so, Mr West, I would be pleased to be formally introduced.”
“My children are not aboard my ship, Lord Bader. They did not return last night.”
“Are you concerned, Mr West?”
“Not unduly, Lord Bader, but I would be pleased to know of their whereabouts.”
“Very well, Mr West, I shall initiate a Discreet Search.”
Back down in the mall, purchases made, Mark and Tamara decided to go and collect Kerry and
Jerry from the sick-bay. The colonel sidled up to them pushing his mop.
“Something is happening,” he murmured. “There is more security about than normal, and they
are checking more IDs.”
“It is us?”
“I don’t know, but assume that it is.”
“We have to fetch Kerry and Jerry.”
“Very well, I’ll come with you.”
With the ‘old cleaner’ shambling along with his bucket of dirty water and his damp mop
dangling precariously over one shoulder, the party found their two friends down in the sick-bay.
Kerry and Jerry were themselves agitated and wanting to be gone. Kerry was formally discharged.
The colonel led them along a corridor to one of the elevators that would take them to the docking
area.
“Excuse me, please, I need to see your IDs!”
The bark that came from the leader of the Internal Security squad was perhaps rather less polite
than regulations dictated for a Discreet Search, but the man was prompted by habitual Imperial
over-zealousness. His three colleagues watched impassively.
Ken bustled forward, mop dangling dangerously.
“You don’t need to see our IDs, you know me.”
“I don’t need to see yours, Ken, but these others...”
“New recruits, just joined, here let me introduce you...”
“Out of the way, Ken. You four, your IDs! Please.”
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“Time to go,” announced Ken to his companions. “Back the way we came, and just keep going!”
The four young people set off back down the corridor.
“Hi, stop! Stop or we’ll shoot! Blasters to stun,” the patrol commander ordered his men. “Out of
the way, Ken!”
The colonel stood his ground.
Up came four blasters, and down came a dirty wet mop to knock them all flying. It swung again
to knock the men senseless to the ground, and then the colonel was off after his charges.
Running past the end of a perpendicular corridor, the fugitives were spotted by another patrol
who immediately gave chase. Running behind the four younger ones, Ken threw his bucket of
soapy water down at the junction as he ran past. As the patrol hit it and attempted a sharp turn, they
all skidded and crashed into the wall opposite.
The fugitives came to the next elevator spoke and Mark pressed the call-up button.
“No!” called the colonel. “Not that one, this one. They’ll be less likely to stop this one.”
A gaping door opened and the five piled in.
“Oh, it stinks in here,” cried Kerry.
“Yes, agreed the colonel. “We use it for the rubbish.”
Tamara and Kerry hugged their new purchases protectively.
“I suppose it had to happen,” mused Tamara.
They did reach the docking area, for their pursuers were all still unconscious. They arrived at
dock 6B just as a trolley was being wheeled aboard.
“Our delivery!” cried the colonel with relief.
He signed the consignment note, then hurried to find the ship’s captain.
“Take off, immediately, Captain Polo!”
“Okay, old man.”
Clearance was received and acted upon moments before Flight Control received the general
alarm. The five fugitives barely found time to strap themselves in before lift-off was made.
Sitting in his command seat, the pilot scanned his readings as they found themselves out of the
Station and surrounded by the bustle of incoming and departing traffic.
“Have you upset someone?” asked the captain looking around at the colonel.
“Why’d you ask?”
“Its just that they’re scrambling a squadron, and there’s another one forming up at two
o’clock...”
“Two o’clock?, Oh, we’ve plenty of time, then.”
“Two o’clock, up there,” pointed the captain.
“Can you out run them?”
“Can I out run them? You are looking at the guy who did the Hassel Run in less than twelve
standard timeparts!”
“Is that fast?” asked the colonel looking blank.
“Is that fast? Is that fast?! Yeah, faster than average, and there was a lot of heavy traffic about
that day.”
“Can’t you jump to hyper-speed?” asked the colonel.
“Not just yet. Not with this traffic about, but, we’ll make the traffic work for us. Say, you still
want the place you asked for? It don’t seem your kind of place, old man.”
The colonel thought for a moment, then nodded.
“As well as anywhere for the moment, but I shall check with Her Grace when opportunity
permits.”
“Her Grace? Is she really the Queen?”
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“She is, Captain.”
As the two squadrons of Imperial Bow-fighters moved in to attack, Dan Polo hefted the fight
controls and called back.
“Hang on to your hats, folks. Now you’re gonna see what the old Jub can do!”
The craft, a small one by the standards of most galactic freighters, was put into a series of twists
and turns that took it in and out the lines of larger ships that plodded their sedate way to and from
the Constructor Station.
Unable to fire for fear of hitting the other craft, the Imperial fighters tracked them patiently until
they ran out of cover as they soon would do. Dan leaned over to his co-pilot.
“You got them hyper-drive calculations all ready there, Hewie?”
The co-pilot, probably the hairiest co-pilot in the entire galaxy, amongst humans at least,
squirted a stream of tobacco juice into a spittoon by way of affirmation.
“Pppt!”
“Good, and please, Hewie, don’t do that in zero gravity. You never know where it’ll end up.”
The captain swung the vessel away from the line of traffic, jinked and twisted and then, with a
final check of his screen, pressed the switch to hyper-drive. Through the vessel’s front screen, the
stars lengthened into bolts of light and then disappeared totally. The pilot swung around in his chair
smiling broadly.
“Dandy piece of handiwork iffin I do say so myself!” he declared.
“Thank you, Captain Polo.”
“Right, now you’re Colonel Wannabee, that much I do know. Which one of you young folks is
her Queenship?”
“Her Grace.”
“Yeah, which one is her Grace, Colonel? I ain’t never met no queen before. Were I come from,
we’ve always been a republic and proud of it.”
“Although the entire galaxy is now an Empire.”
“Not for much longer from what I been hearing, colonel.”
“Captain Polo. May I present Her Grace Queen Tamara of Aldershott, His Highness Prince
Marco of Aldershott, and... er, Kerry and Jerry.”
“Glad to know you, folks, I’m Captain Dan Polo of the Jubilee Endeavour, which is this here
ship and this here’s my co-pilot and pardner, Hewie. He don’t say much.”
“Pppt!” agreed Hewie with a stream of tobacco juice.
Mark spoke up for his party.
“Thank you, Captain. My sister and friends and I are very grateful for your agreeing to transport
us. And you colonel, I must congratulate you on your short work with those guards. I would like to
see you use a light-sabre.”
“Highness. Any fool can use a light-sabre, but to defeat a squad of Imperial soldiers with a mop
and bucket takes skill and training... I would be happy to teach you.”
“One day perhaps. Now, where are we headed?”
“We are heading to the one place, Highness, your Grace, that can most aid us in our mission in
the short term. The more planets that become aware of your existence, your Grace, the more
valuable and useful will be our... cargo. Time is short, and so I have asked the good Captain to take
us to the very heart of the Empire’s greatest media outlet, but I must warn you that it will take all
your steadfastness to see it through.”
“Why?” asked Tamara.
“We are headed for the headquarters of the Wimsey Corporation at Wimseyland.”
“Wimseyland?”
“Yes, the Empire’s largest and most banal theme park.”
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“Oh well, if we must we must. I am sure that I will cope, colonel.”
“Er, that’s actually not the bit that requires your steadfastness, your Grace.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. The steadfastness comes from the fact that Wimseyland used to be the Debt Star!”
“Oh. Oh yes, I see. Oh good.”
“Oh good, your Grace?”
“Yes, I won’t have to pretend that I am enjoying myself. If I look thoroughly miserable, people
will understand, and will not keep telling me to ‘cheer up, it may never happen’.”
Hours later, they came out of supra-light speed and there before them, bedecked with neon lights
and the most unlikely of fantasy castles, was Wimseyland.
“It is huge,” remarked Mark. “More like a small moon.”
“It had to be big enough to contain a neutron-laser,” replied the colonel. “What amazes me is
how your father had the money to fund the construction of that thing.”
“He didn’t.”
“But I thought he financed it?”
“He did, but he runs a bank.”
“Which provided the money, I understood.”
“Banks do not lend money when they lend money, they lend credit. Imagine you go along to
your bank for a loan...”
“Me?“ asked the colonel.
“It works all the same whether you are an individual, a company or a galactic empire... You go
along and ask for a loan, all the bank wants to know is whether you can repay it the credit and the
interest on the credit that it is supposedly lending you. Simply, whether your income is sufficient to
meet the interest charges, and if it might not be, whether you have some assets, your home, your
business, a planet or two, that they can legally seize if you default. So, imagine that you are the
Emperor and you get your cheque for five billion Imperial Credits or whatever from Western
Credit. You toddle along to the contractors who are going to build the thing and hand over the
cheque... You with me?”
“Yes, I follow you,” agreed the colonel.
“And the contractor then puts it into his bank, which may indeed be another branch of Western
Credit itself. No actual money exists or needs to exist.”
“But suppose the contractor’s own bank is not Western Credit?”
“All the banks have accounts with each other. If the recipient bank is in debt to Western Credit,
the cheque would simply be used to wipe out that debt, or if it does not have such a debt, the
recipient bank uses it to build up credit with Western Credit against its own future lending of credits
to clients.”
“But the money does not actually exist?” checked the colonel.
“It does not need to. It is just numbers in computers. The process by which the banks create
money is so simple the mind is repelled. Where something so important is involved a deeper
mystery seems only decent.”
“Who said that?”
“I just did.”
“But the borrower still owes Western Credit the money that they borrowed, but which never
actually existed?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, together with the interest, of course.”
“So if a government borrows money, which does not actually exist, it still has to be paid for by
the hard-working taxpayers?”
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“Yes.”
“But suppose the taxpayers cannot pay anymore?”
“If a government cannot meet its interest charges, it simply borrows more money to pay them,
providing a bank is prepared to extend it more credit. And banks are more happy about extending
credit if the government in question implements the policies that favour the bank. He who pays the
piper calls the tune.”
“Meanwhile the debt grows ever bigger? So who pays for it all in the end?”
“There is no end, colonel. The debt just grows, to be a liability for the next generation, and the
next generation after that, to generations unborn, and the power of the creditors grows with it. The
Galactic Debt is the combined government debt of all the galaxy’s planets. Much of it came from
the U-Sector Federation to pay for the Debt Star and other costs of the Drone Wars, but some of
those debts are hundreds of years old.”
The colonel sat down, or at least he would have done had they not all been suspended in zero
gravity.
“It’s like a financial black-hole,” he gasped.
“That is a very good way of looking at it, colonel. It is a debt that will eventually consume all
credit, even that which it has created.”
“It’s criminal,” decided the colonel.
“No, it’s all perfectly legal.”
“Well, it should be criminal; it’s immoral; it’s unethical. It is the most venal sleight of hand that
ever was conceived! And when you think what the Debt Star cost, and what it did... It crippled the
U-Sector government financially. Their taxes were so high that they forced the creation of the
Galactic Empire, at the point of the Debt Star’s neutron-laser, to spread the cost of the debt over
other planets and federations. But, you know, I never realised that the money that was borrowed to
build it never existed in the first place!”
“You understand our mission now, colonel?”
The older man nodded.
“Yes, I do indeed.”
Chapter 25
The colonel led the briefing for their imminent arrival on Wimseyland.
“Now we have to think about our entrance... Your Grace’s entrance at Wimseyland. We have got
to ensure that you get maximum news coverage as fast as possible. I have no doubt that once the
Emperor discovers what is going on, he will attempt to shut down even Wimsey’s news coverage.
“We can play on the fact that Wimsey likes to present cheerful upbeat news, which tends to be in
rather short supply. That’s why they’re the Empire’s favourite media organisation. Also,
Wimseyland is visited by people from all over the galaxy. They will take their experience back to
their home planets, which will further spread the word once the news black-out kicks in.”
A signal was beamed to Wimseyland to expect the arrival of the Queen of Aldershott. Tamara,
Mark, the colonel and everyone else save Hewie carefully prepared themselves for the roles they
had to play, donning the clothes that they had brought with them from Constructor Station
Resolution. Hewie was asked to mind the ship and not show himself.
“Pppt!” he agreed.
The Jubilee Endeavour orbited the former Debt Star, whilst further signals were passed back and
forth.
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“Suppose it’s a trap?” asked Mark. “There could be a battalion of Stormtroopers just waiting for
us.”
“Could be,” agreed the colonel. “But I doubt anyone could be here before us.”
“Or maybe a HoloNet message came through from the Constructor Station?”
“Mm. Possible, but how likely is it that the Imperial authorities know of our plans, or where we
are headed?”
“True. Now, what do we need to do?” asked Mark.
“Simply get featured on the news,” advised the colonel. “Let’s hope they have some officials and
reporters there at the terminal. We do not need to go far from the ship. We can indicate that it is just
a flying visit, a first stop on a tour of the Empire. Any sign of trouble and we get out of there.”
“Are we not endangering my sister, colonel?”
“Would you rather we did not land, your Grace?” asked the older man, looking at his sovereign.
“No,” said Tamara. “Let’s do it.”
Meanwhile, on Wimsey’s Facts News Channel, the cheery presenter was handed a news-flash.
“Hi there, viewers on Wimsey Facts News, we have breaking news that the Queen of Aldershott
is arriving shortly in Wimseyland. Yes, indeed, the Princess Tamara is alive and well and coming
here to Wimseyland. Remember, you saw it first on Wimsey Facts News. Going over now to our
reporter at the terminal, Don Alducc. What’s the latest, Don?”
“The royal ship is coming down to land here at the terminal, Mick, and a large crowd of visitors
are gathering to receive Her Grace.”
“Thank you, Don. Now here in the studio is our special correspondent, Salone Rangher...”
“Hello, Mick.”
“Salone, can we be sure that this is the real Queen of Aldershott? It was thought that the Princess
Tamara, as she then was, might have died in the Aldershott disaster.”
“Well, Mick, rumours of her survival and that of her bother, the Prince Marco, have persisted
over the years with claims that the royal children were resident on the planet Tattoo One. They were
thought to have been there when Aldershott disappeared. Over the years, their families never
acknowledged their existence, but never denied it either, and when the financier Nathan West never
seemed to show any interest in the two children who were rumoured to be the royal twins, interest
in them rather died down. Then both of the families left Tattoo One a few years ago, and no one
knows where they went.”
“Why has there been no attempt to trace the royal children until now?”
“Simply that, what purpose would be achieved? If they had survived, as many supposed, what
good would there have been in telling a young girl and boy that they were heirs to a non-existent
planet. Besides, their father never denied nor acknowledged their existence. It was down to him to
search for his lost children, if indeed they were lost, and if he did not regard them as being lost, then
in one sense, they never were lost.”
“Yes. Their father, of course, is the financier, Mr Nathan West. What has he said about his son
and daughter over the years?”
“Mr West says very little about anything. He has never confirmed nor denied rumours of their
existence.”
“Thank you, Salone. Now we’ve more information here. We asked the royal ship to send us a
photograph of Her Grace and done a computer-enhanced growth comparison with the last known
photograph of the young Princess Tamara. No expense spared here on Wimsey Facts News, folks,
to bring you the facts, and nothing but the facts! Now, the result we’re getting is that the match is
high... It’s a good one... Oh yes, and here we have a picture of the late Queen Heneria. What do
make of that, Salone?”
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“Yes, you can clearly see the family resemblance there.”
“Thank you, Salone, as we go back to the terminal here on Wimseyland where it is all happening
today, folks, and being brought to you live by Wimsey Facts News. Don.”
“Hi, Mick. The royal starship, which is called the Jubilee Endeavour, a fine royal name, but
which for some reason is disguised as a beat-up old freighter, has now landed and the ramp is going
down.... And here she comes, yes that is undoubtedly the new Queen of Aldershott making her way
down the ramp escorted by... I presume that’s her brother, her twin brother, the Prince Marco, and
coming to meet her is Wimsey Corporation’s President, Dalton Wimsey himself, to be the first man
ever to welcome the new Queen of Aldershott. She’s making her first formal royal visit, and you’re
seeing it right here on Wimsey Facts News!
“The first royal visit of the new Queen of Aldershott is to Wimseyland, folks! I wonder why she
came here. Let’s see if I can have a word with her Grace.... Your Grace, Don Alducc of Wimsey
Facts News, can you spare a word or two for the viewers at home?”
“Certainly, Mr Alducc, I would be glad to.”
“Your Grace, this is, I understand, your first formal visit as Queen of Aldershott, indeed many
wondered whether you were actually alive or not. Now, can you tell me, why did you choose
Wimseyland as your first destination?”
“Because Wimseyland occupies such a special place in people’s hearts and I too want to occupy
a special place in their hearts, to bring a sense of hope in these troubled times within our dear
Empire. I was fortunate to be presented to His Imperial Majesty just yesterday in company with my
father...”
“Yes, your father is the financier, Nathan West? And is he here, Your Grace, if I may ask?”
“He is in close conference with the Emperor, at a place I do not feel at liberty to divulge.”
“No, indeed not. So your coming here, Your Grace, has nothing to do with the fact that this is the
former Debt Star which...”
“Thank you, Don, and we come back to the studio whilst Don sorts out his little technical
difficulty there. We’ll just ask Salone Rangher... Oh, and I think that we can go back to Don at the
terminal where... What’s happening, Don?”
“Well, Mick, it looks like a squad of security staff are marching down here. To be presented to
Her Grace, I have no doubt. What a fine body of men, who all work to guarantee the safety and
security of all our many visitors to Wimseyland from all over the galaxy... oh, and they’re waving
goodbye, the royal party is waving goodbye... I don’t...”
“Thanks Don, and it’s time for a commercial break here on Wimsey Facts News as we... er,
what? We shall be back shortly with a report from Hardknox training ground on how our brave
boys are learning to defend the Empire... Don’t go away!”
With all the aplomb and calm that they could muster, Tamara, Mark and their escorts made their
way back up the ramp and without waiting for clearance, Polo shot them back out into space, where
they allowed themselves time to watch a record of the broadcast.
“What happened at the end?” asked Mark
“It looks like someone got word to stop broadcasting,” suggested the colonel.
“An Imperial command?”
“Probably, whilst they try to work out what is going on. You spoke sympathetically about the
Empire, your Grace. You approve of it?”
“It will help if I seem to approve, colonel, because approval is usually mutual. If people think
that I approve of the Empire, then they might well think that the Empire approves of me. It will be
easier to dispel that notion at a later date, should I want, than to try to create it at a later date.”
“Yes, I see,” agreed the colonel.
“They didn’t stop us leaving,” remarked Polo.
81
“No, captain, but then security might not be their strong point. It is not actually an Imperial
installation.”
“No. It just sounds like one,” opined Captain Polo. “Okay then, folks. Where to now?“
“We need our own media system,” said Mark.
“Our own?” asked Tamara.
“Yes. How ever many people saw that broadcast, its memory will soon fade if we don’t keep
repeating the message, and we may assume that the Empire will close down any references to the
Queen of Aldershott on the official HoloNet system. It will probably do so for the time being
anyway until it works out whose side we are on, as the colonel said.”
“But you are not going to work against the Empire, Highness?” asked a puzzled colonel.
“No, colonel. The Empire, the Imperial authorities, even the Emperor himself are not the
problem, except in as much as they seem to have abandoned their rights and responsibilities over
the money supply. The problem lies with the string of galactic financiers, my father amongst them,
who lend money into existence, and they only do it because they are permitted to do so,” explained
Mark.
“So your plans, Highness?”
“Like I say, the first thing we need is our own media system to keep people aware of my sister as
Queen of Aldershott. We need to do that to retain the value of our money and to educate people
about money.”
“Education will be difficult, Highness. Most people would rather indulge in the bland,
saccharine, feel-good rubbish pushed out by the Wimsey Corporation.”
“Then we need to ensure that our efforts are entertaining as well as informative, colonel. We
need to hire creative people, media specialists as well as people who understand the HoloNet, and
administrators to run it, technicians to service it, and all the ancillary staff to provide for them.”
“I know just the place,” suggested Polo. “We got some of the best unemployed brains in the
galaxy!”
“We, Captain Polo?”
“My own planet, Corelfornia! Yessirree!”
“Thank you, captain. Set us a course for Corelfornia.”
“Pppt!” agreed his co-pilot.
“I wish you won’t keep doing that, Hewie. Not in zero G. What a dumb-ass thing to do...”
Chapter 26
They received a suitably royal welcome by the authorities on Corelfornia. The Global President
could not have been more effusive and, to a large extent, given the widespread sympathy for the
survivors of Aldershott, it was genuine.
Only when they where alone and out of the media spotlight, did he reveal his concerns.
“You are truly welcome here, Your Grace, but you find a planet that is in dire straits. Money is
short. The planetary government owes money to the Empire as part of our share of the Galactic
Debt. We owe money to our own lenders as do many of our corporations. Too many young
Corelfornians are unable to find employment, and yet they are very well educated, most of them,
and their frustration boils over into restless talk... dangerous talk...”
“Fear not, Mr President, I did not come here with a begging bowl, but with money, cash, to hire
many of your people, for I have work for them.”
“Cash, Your Grace?”
“Aldershott shillings are still legal tender in the Empire, are they not?”
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“Indeed, Your Grace, in memory of... past events.”
“You would accept Aldershott shillings?”
“Certainly. They can be used to pay off our debts. They are legal tender so they cannot be
denied. Yes, indeed. How many employees did you have in mind?”
“Several thousand, I should think, and we need a HoloNet system, and software and high quality
entertainment material, and reporters, researchers, technicians, and a suitable headquarters... and
starships, a hyperspace-capable headquarters starship and a number of freighters, and ancillary staff
to service these facilities These you can provide?”
“If you have the money, Your Grace, but not the starships. We do not have such a facility on or
around Corelfornia.”
“We have the money, Mr President. My authority is unlimited in that respect,” Tamara assured
him.
“As regards a suitable headquarters starship, Your Grace, how big did you have in mind?”
Tamara looked at her brother.
“As big as a Star-cruiser, I should think,” suggested Mark.
“Ah! I have heard, Highness, as one does, that Harlooff may have something that would meet
your needs. Certainly, like us, they could use the money.”
“And has there been dangerous talk on Harlooff, as well, Mr President?” asked Mark.
The Corelfornian President pursed his lips.
“There has been dangerous talk throughout much of the Empire, Highness. Many planetary
governments as well as individuals have reached the point of desperation.”
“Then,” decided Tamara, “let us eradicate that desperation.”
The colonel was left to supervise the new Aldershott Media Corporation, with a large proportion
of the Aldershott shillings and written authority to create more. The Jubilee Endeavour left
Corelfornia for Harlooff, or more accurately for the large constructor station that orbited it and
which, in the good times, provided it with much of its income.
The best times on Harlooff were war-times, when large numbers of starships, both military and
civilian were required. Investment reached a peak during war-time, to a level that could not be
sustained by the lower levels of work of peace-time. The authorities on Harlooff had welcomed the
‘dangerous talk against the Empire’. Whether they formally joined in the ‘dangerous talk’, or
merely supplied starships as indifferent businessmen, it seemed to offer them their only hope.
So Harloof Construction had very much welcomed the order for some Star-cruisers that it had
received months before, even though that order had not come from the Imperial Government. It did
not welcome, but was required to obey, the instruction to end the construction of these cruisers.
The reception for Tamara, Mark and their followers was scrupulously correct, as befitting the
head of state of a fellow planet within the Empire, although the welcome lacked the open warmth of
Corelfornia.
The First Minister of Harlooff welcomed the Queen of Aldershott with careful words. The
Queen of Aldershott was equally cautious. The atmosphere changed entirely, however, once the
nature of her Grace’s visit was known.
“You wish to buy one of our uncompleted Star-cruisers?” asked an amazed but delighted First
Minister.
“Yes.”
“You have the money?”
“Are Aldershotti shillings acceptable?”
“They are legal tender, certainly, but we have been denied authority to construct military vessels,
Highness.”
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“We do not want a military vessel. We want it fitted out as a media and communications centre.
You can do that?”
“Of course.”
“And we will want some freighters, as well.”
“Some?”
“Let’s say four, to begin with.”
“All this you can afford?”
“If cash is acceptable?”
“Of course. Please, Highness, all this? Does it have Imperial authority?”
“It has not been prohibited, and our intentions are entirely commercial. No Imperial authority is
required, I think you’ll find.”
“Indeed, Highness. You require the vessels as quickly as possible, of course?”
“Of course, but we can give you the cash up front. And once you have completed the
headquarters ship and the freighters, we want you to start building for us an orbital night-cloak.”
“A night-cloak, Highness? To be used against whom?”
“To be used against no one, but to be used for planets that need one,” replied Mark. “Again, it
will be for purely commercial purposes.”
The joy was too much for the First Minister. He wanted to laugh and shout and dance and sing.
He wanted to roll on the floor and weep with the sheer ecstasy of the moment, but First Ministers
don’t do that sort of thing, not in public at least. Instead he gazed deeply into the eyes of Tamara,
then Mark.
“Thank you, Your Grace, Highness. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you...”
Similar visits were conducted to other planets to hire star-freighter crews and more technicians
and media types, to order uniforms for their staff and costumes for their presenters, to create
catering and housing facilities and to buy fuel elements for all the different communications and
transportation systems that Aldershott Media and Aldershott Starships would need to employ.
Soon throughout many planets of the Empire, the despondency and hopelessness that had created
dangerous talk these past few years had begun to fade. Many planets began to have their dire
financial problems eased, and in turn had begun to spend their new found money-wealth with those
other planets with whom they were wont to trade in times of plenty.
Chapter 27
After weeks of frantic activity, and then finding time on their hands as their plans were taken
forward by others, the thoughts of Tamara, Mark, Kerry and Jerry turned towards what they now
regarded as their home planets.
Following discussion, it was decided that Bacchanalia would first need to be helped and then
Standardia. Elysium should be managing its affairs without difficulty, but it would be as well to
drop by if passing, to make sure that everything was all right.
The people of Standardia gathered at the Standardia City Interplanetary Spaceport as they had
come to gather every year for the past four years. Sure enough, on the expected day a starship spun
out of the clear blue sky and came into land. There was flags and bunting everywhere, and an
enthusiastic crowd had gathered with banners and placards to welcome the familiar slug-shaped
vessel.
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When Barcla the Hoard oozed his way down the ramp, he could not believe his eyes. He had
heard of Greenboi’s reception the previous year and scarcely believed it, so this year he had decided
to check it out himself. The people were screaming and yelling, and whistling and cheering. For a
rather nasty, big fat slug who had never been cheered before by people not in his pay, it was a
strange and rather exhilarating experience.
He started composing in his mind the suitably serious speech that such an occasion demanded.
He stood and smiled and waved, and gradually an expectant hush descended.
“People of this fair land of Standardia,” he began, to be cut short by a short burst of cheering. He
continued.
“It is now four years, since I first had the pleasure of visiting your delightful planet...”
“Four more years!” shouted a man at the front, and this slogan was taken up as a chant by the
whole crowd.
“Four more years! Four more years! Four more years!”
For the first time in his life, Barcla the Hoard found himself unable to get a word in edgeways,
and for the first time in his life, he found himself not minding the fact. Governor Stardust joined the
fat financier, and they held each other’s arms aloft to enjoy the cheers of the crowd.
The crowd continued their cheering as man and slug processed to the Governor’s Residence.
When the crowd had largely begun to get bored with their cheering, which was not for some
time, Barcla and the Governor were able to get down to business. Governor Stardust paid up the
five hundred and twenty dollars that was the interest due and collected another six hundred dollars
as a further loan.
Barcla hung around to receive more ovations and to be presented with a baseball cap marked up
with ‘I ♥ BtH’, examples of which were also worn by a large section the crowd. Then, with tears in
his eyes, he returned to his starship and sped off into space.
There was a part of him that was tempted to release this good and enthusiastic people from the
terrible fate that was in store for them, but it was not a very big part of him and the rest of him
easily managed to overcome it.
At much the same time, another starship was due to make a visit to Bacchanalia.
Here an injection of cash had also boosted the planet’s economy, although the Bacchanalian
cultural aspirations were not to work hard in order to be seen to be a hard-working and respectable
member of society, but to work just sufficient to enable themselves to spend as much time as
possible on the beach drinking beer and surfing.
To this end, they finally managed and decided to move the settlement from its previous location
so that it would be right by the beach. This had involved much spending and earning of Imperial
Credits, but thereafter behaviour had settled down to the normal rather laid back order of things,
which gave everyone time to think and consider.
Most people just thought about how they could do the barest minimum of work to earn what they
needed, but Sheila Diggerdigger, as befitting her name, had begun to consider their community’s
financial matters more deeply.
She sat enjoying a beer with her husband Lewie together with Brucie and his wife, Kayley.
“You sorted the money you owe that slug, Brucie?”
“The interest? Sure have, Sheil. Have you?”
“Oh yeah, no worries. But, I am worried about next year?”
“How come, Sheil?”
“Because our income is dependent upon the amount of money that everyone one else has got to
spend.”
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“That’s the same for all us, Sheil.“
“I know that, Brucie, I’m not saying we’re different. In fact that’s the point. If we’re going to
struggle to find next year’s money, so will everyone else.”
“But why should anyone struggle?”
“Because they’ll be less money about.”
“So how’d you work that out?”
“Because we’re all paying the slug interest, right?”
“Right.”
“So we’ll have less money to spend, right?”
“No, that can’t be right, Sheil.”
“I’ve done some calculations. We started off with a thousand Credits between us. We spent
about five hundred on surf-boards and borrowed another thousand. That gives us fifteen hundred in
circulation, but we have to pay two hundred in interest, so we’ll be down to thirteen hundred in
circulation and... we will still owe the flat slug that thousand.”
Bruce Brewsterson thought for a minute, as owner of the largest business on Bacchanalia, the
brewery and bar, people naturally regarded him as the money expert. He allowed himself to
consider his own financial position. He owed the slug two hundred, and had to find forty Credits
this year to service the debt. He had more than sufficient to pay his interest and enough to pay off
the rest of his debt. Takings were up on the previous year, which had been something of a poor
year, before that extra thousand had been borrowed. In fact they were almost as good as that first
year, when he had borrowed that first five hundred to set up the brewery. The pattern was clear,
borrowing equated with profitable years, no borrowing meant poor years.
Bruce Brewsterson was glad that he himself would be clearing his own debt, but he saw clearly
that if the rest of Bacchanalia paid off theirs, the economy would collapse again. Following Sheila’s
calculations, if everyone else did pay off their debts then they’d only have about three hundred
Credits between them.
“I shouldn’t worry about it, Sheil. No worries, she’ll be right.”
The starship that came down to land by the beach, was a very respectable-looking one and the
two humans that emerged from it, sombre suited as they were, could well have been Imperial
officials. The people of Bacchanalia cast nervous glances at each other.
“Greetings, people of Bacchanalia. We are seeking Howie G’dbody and Bruce Brewsterson.”
“Well, you’ve found Bruce Brewsterson. That’s me. Lewie, see if Howie’s about, would you?
What can we do for you fellers? You fancy a beer?”
“Thank you, no. My name is Neem Greitor, this is my colleague Suff Hirtle, we are the Outer
Rim Z-Sector representatives of Western Credit. You may have heard the name?”
“Yeah, back on Tattoo One, that was one of the banks.”
“Yes.”
Howie appeared.
“You want me, Brucie?”
“It seems like these two fellers from Western Credit want us both, Howie.”
The newcomers paired off with Brucie and Howie, and they sat down at separate tables to
conduct their business, which was simply to announce that both of the debts that were owed to
Barcla the Hoard, two hundred Credits from Bruce Brewsterson and one thousand from the
Commonwealth of Bacchanalia had both been sold by Barcla & Hoard Ltd to Western Credit Ltd.
As the bank’s representatives, they were there to collect the interest that was due thereupon. They
produced the documents that gave evidence of this transaction.
If either Bruce or Howie were bothered that their debts could be bought and sold like a tangible
entity, they neither of them demurred. Indeed it was with rather a look of triumph that Bruce
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produced not only the forty Credits interest, but the two hundred Credits that he still owed. For
some reason, Suff Hirtle, who took the money, did not seem very pleased about this.
Howie, in his capacity as President of the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia, paid over the two
hundred Credits that was due on that loan. He did not offer, nor was he asked for any repayment
towards the principle, however he was offered a further loan, this he refused as they had money
enough in the Bacchanalian economy. Hands were solemnly shaken and the two men from Western
Credit departed whence they had come, but not before refusing a beer each and the chance to enjoy
some surfing.
The crowd at Brucie’s Bar were still sitting by the beach when a second starship appeared in the
sky.
“D’you think they’ve forgotten something?”
“Maybe they did fancy some surfing, after all.”
“No, it’s a different ship.”
“Quick, hide your money. It could be Imperials!”
It was not Imperials but the Jubilee Endeavour that came in to land on nearly the very same spot
that had been so recently been vacated by the Western Credit vessel.
Kerry and Jerry came down the starship’s ramp to stand and admire the new beach-side location.
“So this is what you get up to when we’re away!”
“Oh, hiya, fellers, come and have a beer. Who’s your friends?”
“This here’s Tamara and Mark, Captain Dan Polo and Hewie. Hewie don’t say much.”
“Glad you could drop by. Have a beer. You’re in luck, we’ll be having a barbie later.”
“We have a barbie most nights, Brucie.”
“Okay Kayley, I’m only saying. Where have you been then, Jerry?”
“Oh, all over the place.”
“So working behind the bar for Barky didn’t work out then?”
“Barcla! Hah, that is one nasty piece of... I won’t say the word ‘cos there’s ladies present.”
“Oh, I found him just a regular businessman,” said Bruce, the contented businessman himself.
“How’d you mean, Jerry?” asked Sheila sitting up.
“Well, Sheil, it seems like he was trying to ensnare a couple of Restricted Planets into becoming
his debt-salves. We were one of them, but he sold our debts to Nathan West, the feller who runs
Western Credit. You could be getting a visit from them any day.”
“They just left,” said Brucie
“What?!”
“They just left, a couple of hours ago.”
“Hell. I’d hoped we’d get here before them. What’s the damage?”
“What do you mean? What’s the damage?”
“What’s the financial situation?”
“No worries, Jerry. It’s all under control.”
“I’m not sure it is, Bruce,” interjected Sheila.
Emboldened by Jerry’s concerns, Sheila called to Howie and Lewie, who came and joined them,
as did Kerry, whilst Mark and Tamara looked on, beers in hand. Sheila addressed the council
President.
“I think we need to consider our whole financial situation, Howie, for the whole of the
Commonwealth of Bacchanalia. Like how much we owe, and what that means for the future. Tell
him, Jerry.”
Under Mark and Tamara’s approving eye, Jerry laid before those citizens of Bacchanalia who
deigned to concern themselves the whole plan of getting planets ensnared in a debt that they could
never repay in order that the debtor could assume complete control over its people.
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“Looks like you arrived just in time,” remarked Sheila.
“But you said that West’s men had been and gone.”
“Yes, too late for this year, but not too late in total, because we’ve still got enough to pay off all
our debts next year, when they come. We still have thirteen hundred by my reckoning.”
“How’d you get that, Sheil?”
“Think. We started off with a thousand, right? We spent about five hundred on them blasted
surf-boards, leaving us with five hundred. We borrowed a thousand, making fifteen hundred in
total, we’ve just paid two hundred in interest. We have to pay them another two hundred in interest
next year when they come, but we can do that and still pay off the thousand principle. They won’t
enslave us!”
“Hey, you are forgetting all Brucie’s debts?”
Bruce stood up, his hands in the air.
“All gone, mate, all paid off.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I don’t owe a thing to anyone on or off this planet.”
“Right, so that’s you clear. Okay, it’ll work, but we’ll have only a hundred Credits between all of
us. Economic stagnation, again,” declared Howie.
“Not necessarily,” said Jerry, and he went on to explain how they could set up their own bank.
One side of the bank, the money creation side, would work for the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia.
It would issue money to pay for the cost of capital works for the benefit of the people of
Bacchanalia. That would be the source of the money supply. The bank’s other side would have
accounts for individual citizens, where they could save or borrow. The savers receiving interest in
their deposits. The borrowers paying interest on their loans, with no more borrowing permitted than
there was money already in existence and held on deposit as savings.
Sheila Diggerdigger made notes on all this and got the general acceptance that such a plan
should be put into existence, taking especial note of the importance of ensuring that the money that
they created was spent, not lent, into existence. Bruce Brewsterson looked on sceptically.
“You say that money must not be lent into existence,” he challenged Jerry.
“That’s right” replied Jerry.
“But we’re using Imperial Credit Notes. They’re not lent into existence.”
“That’s right,” agreed Jerry. “They are fiat money. Money that is legal tender because the
government says it is, but here on Bacchanalia, because you have no outside revenue and you spent
most of the money on imported things, so much so that the Credits that you borrowed became the
money supply, then to all intents and purposes, so far as the economy of Bacchanalia is concerned,
your money supply, as opposed to that of the wider Imperial economy, has been created as an
interest-bearing debt.”
Bruce rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“You will use our new money, won’t you, Bruce?” asked Sheila with concern.
“If I can buy my hops and barley with it and pay my staff, of course I’ll use it,” confirmed Bruce
“But I reserve the right to hang on to my Imperial Credits.”
“But Bruce, we need all of them to pay off this debt.”
“I haven’t got any debt.”
“Bruce!”
“Leave him be, Sheil,” urged Howie. “We’ll sort this out, no worries.”
When the travellers of the Jubilee Endeavour left later that day, they left rather more in hope
than in expectation that the people of Bacchanalia would be able to sort out their problems, but they
could not stay as they had other places to go and things to do. The next place on their list was
Standardia. Tamara was under no illusions as to the nature of her welcome there.
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The sign welcoming visitors to Standardia City Interplanetary Spaceport was easily read from
space by any starship equipped with normal vision intensifiers and so the Jubilee Endeavour came
into land in the appropriate place.
The crowd that watched it land, however, was a small one, as its visit was quite unexpected.
Only a few passers-by stopped to watch its arrival, including Jefferson Clintwood who had recently
come around to thinking that when Tex Stardust stood down at the next elections, he would have a
shot at standing for Governor himself.
The spaceport was not far from the Governor’s house, and Tex Stardust was soon on the scene to
greet his new visitors, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw who led the party that made its way
down the starship’s ramp.
“You!” he cried, aghast and amazed.
“Me!” agreed Tamara.
“Who?” asked a puzzled Jeff Clintwood.
“Her!” declared the Governor.
“What?” asked Mark, anxious to discover the problem.
The answer would not come from the Governor, however, for he promptly turned on his heels
and stomped off back to his residence. Everyone watched him go for a minute before turning to one
another once more.
“I heard how you an’ him had a bust up,” said Clintwood. “Must have been mighty important.”
“I think so, Mr Clintwood.”
Clintwood studied the newly returned Tammy Woodsawyer in her fancy up-market clothes, with
her party of attendants and, seemingly, her own private starship, and he decided that maybe this
young woman had something to say that was worth listening to.
“Care to join me for a drink at the saloon?” he suggested.
“Certainly, Mr Clintwood. And my companions?”
“Oh, bring ‘em on. What’s their names?”
“This is my long lost twin brother, Mark.”
“Mark? Just Mark, you don’t have another name?”
“My full name is His Highness Prince Marco Rexinlu Nathan Abasil of Aldershott, Lord High
Admiral, Marshall of the Royal Aldershott Army, Duke of Loquascia, Viscount Fopp, Lord of
Hassk, Derentoo and Bugaritt, Keeper of the Royal Sanctum and Master of Plin, but my friends call
me Mark.”
“Sure thing, Mark, let’s be friends. How’d you like your bourbon?”
“And these are Kerry and Jerry.”
“Glad to know you Kerry and Jerry... and whatever else you might be.”
“Oh, we’re nothing else.”
“I see. Mark here nicked all the jobs, did he? Well, you just make sure that he does ’em all,
that’s what I say.”
They settled themselves around a table in the saloon, away from the piano player in the corner,
the good-time girls at the bar, and the card sharks at their poker game.
Settling themselves to their drinks, Tamara told Clintwood all about her fears for the future of
Standardia. He did not understand half of what she said, but it was clear from the nods and helpful
interjections of her friends, that they knew about the problem and that it was serious. Eventually,
with the confidence of a few drinks inside him, he leaned forward to ask the question that came into
his mind.
“Are you telling me that from the moment that we first took out that loan, we weren’t never
gonna repay it on account of having no external income?”
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As Mark, Tamara, Kerry and Jerry had, each in their own fashion, just spent the last hour telling
the man that very fact, the four of them all nodded sagely. Only an hour, wow, this guy was sharp!
“And there ain’t nothing we can do about it?”
“Not without outside help,” said Tamara.
“Listen, honey. You should know. We’re the Great Society of Standardia. Asking for outside
help ain’t on the agenda.”
“It will be eventually,” Tamara explained. “This is how I think we should do it...”
Tamara’s plan never got explained however, as their talk was interrupted by the loud entry into
the saloon of a large garrulous man who stomped across the floorboards leaving a trail of trail-dust
in his trail.
“Gimme the best bottle of bourbon in the house!” he ordered the bar-tender.
“You celebrating?” asked the bar-tender.
“Sure am. You know them thar hills on the western horizon?”
“I seen ‘em, sure.”
“I jest come from them thar hills.”
“So? You got the money for this here bottle?”
“Sure have!”
He pulled from his pocket a large lump of jagged yellow rock which he dumped down on the
bar.
“Looky here! There’s gold in them thar hills!”
“Gold!” cried the bar-tender.
“Gold!” cried the good-time girls.
“Gold!” cried the card sharks.
“Gold!” cried the pianist.
“Gold!” cried Jefferson Clintwood.
The people of Standardia City, once they heard the news, paused only briefly to shout ‘Gold!’ a
few times at each other and then, as if they were a single entity, they rushed off in a mad-cap dash
to the western hills. Some managed to collect a pick or spade on their way. Jeff Clintwood grinned
broadly at his guests.
“Looks like we’s gonna save ourselves after all!” he called gleefully, and high-tailed it off along
the western trail.
Mark, Tamara, Kerry and Jerry remained seated around the saloon table, watching the dust of the
departing townsfolk gently settle.
“I think we’re going to have to come back later to sort out Standardia,” said Tamara.
“But surely,” put in Jerry. “Now that they’ve discovered this gold, their money problems are
over!”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Why not?”
“Because Barcla the Hoard is not interested in gold. He wants control of this planet.”
“But he can’t refuse payment in gold.”
“Oh, yes he can. Gold is not legal tender. Only legal tender cannot be refused for the settlement
of a debt. They can find a whole mountain full of gold, and it won’t save them. Still an’ all, they
might as well have these two dollars of mine. They’ll pay for another round of drinks, and the folks
here are going to need every dollar they can get. Where to next, Mark?”
“I thought to pop along to Elysium, if you don’t mind. I should think everything is all right, but
it would be nice to make sure.”
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Chapter 28
The emergence of the Jubilee Endeavour into sub-light speed was on the point of the hyperspeed zone closest to Elysium and there, sitting right in front of them, was an enormous Starcruiser.
“Hell! Hewie, deflector shields up!”
Dan Polo worked the starship’s controls to prevent it crashing into the enormous vessel, whilst
his co-pilot put it into a defensive mode. As they swung past the looming battleship, they saw a
squadron of fighters emerge from a docking bay and spread out to attack them from multiple
directions.
“Oh hell!” cried Polo.
“What do you want us to do?!” called Mark.
“Can you fire an anti-ship blaster cannon?!”
“No, ’fraid not.“
“How good’s your local astrogation knowledge?!”
“Er... non-existent.”
“How about you guys flying this ship whilst Hewie and me fire the cannons?!”
“Ah, maybe not.”
“Then you just sit tight, guys, and leave this to old Dan and Hewie!”
A bolt of blaster fire caught their deflectors and rocked the starship.
“Hell! We’ll not hold out against too much of that!”
“Maybe we should surrender,” suggested Tamara.
“To Imperials?!” called Polo.
“You’re sure they’re Imperials?”
“You check that, Hewie! Are they communicating? What are they saying? Who are they?!”
They were rocked by more fire as Hewie checked the communications frequencies. The radio
crackled into life.
“Ship in Elysium space-space! Surrender on the orders of the Bukeepin Judicial Council!” came
through on the radio.
“Bukeepin!” yelled Polo. “What the hell do they want?”
“Let us find out,” suggested Tamara.
Down below on Elysium, quite a number of citizens sat in their gardens and looked up to watch
the fireworks above their heads, whilst they enjoyed a nice cup of tea. Members of the Starship
Spotter’s Club danced about declaring that it was a space battle raging, but their elders and betters
dismissed this as arrant nonsense.
The subdued Jubilee Endeavour was taken into one of the Star-cruiser’s docking bays, and Polo
shut down his ship’s engines.
“You know these Bukeepas, Dan?” asked Mark.
“Yeah, I come across them.”
“What are they like?”
“In a word, ‘pedantic’.”
The members of the delegation that awaited them as the ship’s ramp went down were all slightly
shorter in height than the average human. Their skin was pale to the point of whiteness, their hair
was fair and neatly parted in the middle, and they all had beady little eyes that squinted through
thick pebble spectacles. One of them stepped forward.
“Who is the captain of this starship?”
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“I am,“ admitted Polo.
“Your receipt,” said the Bukeepa, handing him a slip of paper.
“My receipt?”
“We have taken charge of this ship. When you want to recover it, you will need to present this
receipt.”
“And if I lose it?”
“Then you will need to complete Form LS25/12, which will need to be presented to the Lost
Property Claims Tribunal, where you will need to provide evidence of...”
“Okay, I won’t lose the receipt.”
A second Bukeepa stepped forward.
“Greetings. My name is Darter Inpoot, I will be your host during your stay aboard our ship. I
understand that I have the honour of addressing Her Grace the Queen of Aldershott?”
“That is myself,” said Tamara.
“And the Prince Marco of Aldershott?”
“That’s me,” said Mark.
“Good, you are both here.”
“And these are Kerry and Jerry, and Captain Dan Polo and Hewie,” said Mark.
“Thank you, Highness, but these others are not statistically relevant. Please follow me.”
“Can Hewie and me stay with the ship? If we ain’t statistically relevant, an’ all?” asked Captain
Polo.
“Very well, but do not attempt to leave until you are authorised.”
The other four were led a short distance to a conference room where they were bid to sit, Mark
and Tamara at two seats at a table, their two companions on a row chairs behind them. Around the
room, at a higher level was a gallery in which a couple of Bukeepas sat, notebooks in hand. High
above in the vaulted ceiling of the room, hung an enormous chandelier. Mark glanced nervously up
at it.
“I wonder how they’ve managed to create gravity on this ship,” he muttered to no one in
particular.
After a moment or two a file of very sombre Bukeepas walked to the side of the table opposite
them, turned as one and sat down. They were all very non-descript, with pebble spectacles, careful
hairstyles and anonymous clothing.
“I am Dubba Lentree, of the Bukeepin Judicial Council, and I am here to consider your case,”
said the central figure.
“Our case?” queried Mark.
“As you are, of course, aware, the galaxy must always be kept in perfect balance; for every joy,
there must be a sorrow; for every good deed, there must a bad deed; for every credit, there must be
a debit.”
“We did not know that,” said Mark.
Dubba Lentree looked at his colleagues.
“This dearth of knowledge, which we keep encountering, is disturbing. Is there an abundance of
knowledge upon other matters, to balance it?”
“That is the presumption, Master Lentree,” said one of the other Bukeepas. “Many sentient
beings absorb knowledge for no other purpose than their own interest or amusement.”
Dubba Lentree allowed a sigh to escape.
“Ignorance is no excuse, however. We will proceed.”
“What case is this?” demanded Mark. “Are you Imperial authorities?”
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“Our authority is far greater than this... this Empire. The Empire is just one more factor among
the many with which we must juggle. Our duty is to the Universe. We keep it in perfect balance.
That is our unique calling and destiny - before, during and after this new Empire.
“As for your case... Your Grace, it has come to our attention that you have brought much joy and
well-being to several member planets of the galaxy. We presume that you plan to continue upon this
reckless path of magnanimity and munificence?”
“Yes, of course.”
“It must be stopped.”
“Stopped, why?”
“Because it will invariably bring sorrow and misery in its wake.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because such woe is necessary to restore the equilibrium of the universe... to equipoise
the essential state of the cosmos... to balance the books.”
“To balance the books?”
“Yes, all must be kept in balance, and we find that you are unbalancing the books in two crucial
areas. Firstly, your mere re-appearance and your actions upon several planets has brought about a
heightened state of joy, which is itself exceedingly dangerous, and secondly, this money that you
have created and are spending is a credit that is not balanced by a corresponding debit.”
“You say that for every joy there has to be a sorrow?” asked Mark.
“Correct.”
“I find that an absurd notion, but supposing it were true, what great joy corresponded to the
misery of the destruction of Aldershott?”
“The destruction of Aldershott brought with it the end of the Drone Wars and peace throughout
the galaxy. It was a classic example of a terrible sorrow bringing forth great joy. Do you deny
that?”
“No.”
“So, we must consider this fiat money that you have created. Credits with no corresponding
debit. We consider that so far, your activities may not be sufficient to cause an excessive imbalance
in the emotional state of the universe, but we are concerned about its economic state.”
“But we have saved several planetary economies from collapse,” protested Mark.
“In the short term, perhaps, but our concern is with the long term. Too much money chasing too
few goods causes inflation. That is a well-known paradigm.”
“Only when that money does not itself directly cause the creation of goods, and not just goods in
our case, but capital projects that will have lasting benefits.”
“You are creating credits with no corresponding debits. Do you deny it?!”
“We do.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Explain yourself.”
“You judge everything as if it were upon a ledger sheet. Either as a debit or a credit, with each
necessarily balanced by an opposite...”
“That is the way of the universe, and also the way of prudent financial management.”
“So you suppose that all activity must necessarily be buying or selling, of gaining possession or
surrendering possession, and that is fine when dealing with a single entity, a person or a company,
dealing with other, distinct persons or companies, but it does not apply when the credit is for a
whole community, and not one community opposed to another community, but for a community
that encompasses both buyer and seller, both credit and debit. To place something that exists to
benefit both sides of an arrangement on one side of the scales or the other is quite distorting.”
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“Go on.”
“Let us say that a community builds for itself a school, to educate its young people. That is a
credit, it is not?”
“Well strictly, as an asset it would be regarded as a debit on a financial ledger, but we
understand how you would regard it as a credit. Go on.”
“So ask yourself, what debit stands against such a thing? Who loses out by its creation?”
“Those who would be unable to prey upon an otherwise ignorant populace would stand to lose
out.”
“But is that desirable?”
“Yes, if it maintained the equilibrium of the universe. It is important to understand Tinstaafl.”
“Tinstaafl?”
“Yes. There is no such thing as a free lunch.”
“You say that you seek perfect equilibrium?”
“Yes.”
“Is that desirable?”
“Of course.”
“So when you have balanced all the good things with all the bad things and attained perfect
balance, is that in itself a good thing?”
“Certainly, it is our purpose in life to attain it.”
“So what bad thing exists to counterpoise this desirable equilibrium?”
The Bukeepas said nothing. They just sat looking appalled and unsure of themselves.
“You say that there is no such thing as a free lunch,” continued Mark. “But what of the universe
itself?”
“The universe itself?”
“Yes, is not the universe and everything in it - you, me, all its creatures and civilisations - the
ultimate free lunch? What debit corresponds with the credit that is the universe?”
There was a restlessness within the rank of Bukeepas. Glances were cast between one another.
“All I am saying,” said Mark, “is that maybe it is not appropriate to regard everything as being
on one side of the ledger account or the other... And have you ever thought that maybe there are
things that never get put on the ledger account... That get overlooked...?”
“We are very thorough.”
“Can you know everything?”
“We concern ourselves with the major things, those whose size may cause instability.”
“So if you disapprove of fiat money, do you approve of money created as an interest-bearing
debt?”
“Of course, it creates both a credit and a debit. It balances.”
“It balances on paper, but it creates instability within economies.”
“How so?”
“When rates of interest are low, some people borrow money as businessmen to develop
businesses and others borrow as private individuals to buy the products of those businesses. The
money that is borrowed is not of pre-existing money that is of limited amount, instead it is newly
created by the borrowing process. There is no limit on the amount that can created out of thin air in
this way, and there is no connection between the amount created and the amount of goods and
services that are available, and, because it is far easier to create money than it is to create the goods
and services that this money may purchase, the money supply invariably exceeds production, and so
inflation occurs.
“To curb this inflation, the rates of interest are consequently raised, for that is the only
mechanism that a government has in its power to influence the size of the money supply, at least by
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one that has abandoned the responsibility of creating the money supply. This rise in interest rates
actually adds to inflation initially, and it is only with individuals and businesses experiencing
financial difficulties, with bankruptcies and repossessions, that economic activity slows and
inflation is controlled. People reduce the amount of goods and services that they buy as they can no
longer afford them. The economy heads towards recession, then to prevent recession the interest
rates are reduced and the whole process begins again.”
“It is the natural business cycle,” pronounced Dubba Lentree.
“It is not natural! It is entirely the consequence of an unstable money supply. It causes ordinary
beings much misery and suffering. People take their own lives as a consequence of being forced
into financial difficulties! How do you account for that in your ledger?! Does that cause great joy
elsewhere? It is not necessary!
“A money supply that, in its creation, brought forth capital projects for the benefit of a
community as a whole, that reduced taxes by virtue of abolishing the need for governments to
borrow money, and whose amount was not dependent upon the rising and falling of interest rates,
would eradicate the instability that causes a succession of booms and busts - the switch-back of
euphoria and desolation that characterises the mood of the business community and those employed
by them.
“And... and there is a further problem, an even greater long term problem with money created as
an interest-bearing debt!”
“Which is what?”
“The amount of money needed to clear an interest-bearing debt is always greater than the initial
debt itself. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“But if all, or nearly all, of the money that has been created within an economy is in the form of
interest-bearing debts, then the amount needed to clear the total debts of that economy government, corporate and personal - is greater than the total amount of money in existence. It is a
debt that can never be cleared!”
“There will be sufficient money available when the creditors of these debts spend all their profits
back with their debtors. Then there will be equilibrium. Perfect balance.”
“But that will never happen. You know that. The financiers will never spend all their profits, or
even most of them. They will just use them for further lending.”
“But in theory, equilibrium may be attained.”
“Are you concerned with the theoretical or actual equilibrium of the universe?” challenged
Mark.
Dubba Lentree gazed thoughtfully at the four figures in front of him.
“Have you anything further you wish to add?” he asked them.
Mark, Tamara and Kerry shook their heads. Jerry raised an arm.
“Any chance of a drink?”
“We will provide you with refreshments whilst we retire to consider our verdict,” declared
Dubba Lentree.
Sure enough, as the line of Bukeepas stood, turned and filed out of the room, another sombre
little Bukeepa came in bearing a tray of drinks. He placed the tray before them and departed.
“What now? I wonder,” mused Tamara. “Who are these Bukeepas, anyway? What authority do
they have?”
“As much authority as anybody else in the galaxy, when you come down to it,” explained Mark.
“All authority exists only because people let those in authority have it or because those who have it
are strong enough to enforce it, which is just the other side of the coin. Nothing in the universe has
95
natural authority, except the laws of nature, and this of credits and debits having to balance,
however an ancient belief it may be, is not a natural law.”
“Unlike the Source,” remarked his sister.
“The Source is not so much a natural law, as a way of understanding natural law. The Source is
not one thing. It never has been. It has changed over the years, over the all the ages of time. It
existed before sentient beings existed. Then when civilisations emerged, it changed from its animal
state to the current cultural state, but even then it has changed as culture has changed.
“Once religion was the Source of power. For a time political ideology held sway. Military power
has been supreme at times, but can only be so very briefly, and normally only as the servant of one
of the three other great cultural influences. Nowadays, military power, religious power and political
power are all dependent upon economic power. So whoever creates the money supply controls the
economy and hence controls the galaxy. That is the current Source of power.”
Mark looked at his three companions.
“Maybe I should not be telling you this so bluntly, without teaching all that must be understood,
if that knowledge is not going to corrupt you to the dark side of the Source, but the dark side is only
dangerous to those with inherent ambition. I was once ambitious. I was young and male and
possessed a modicum of intelligence; ambition kinda goes with the territory. It took a long time to
knock it out of me...”
Mark’s ramblings were interrupted by the return of the file of Bukeepas back to their places.
When all were seated, Dubba Lentree glanced left and right to his colleagues to remind himself of
their decision.
“We have thoroughly considered your case,” he announced. “You are, Highness, most learned.”
“I was well taught... by a Credit Master himself.”
“We understood that the Credit Masters disappeared long ago, which is why the galaxy’s
finances have been in such a mess.”
“No. They did not disappear. They created banks and finance houses for themselves, with
branches on every planet in the galaxy.”
“Ah, yes. The essential pillars of a developed economy.“
“Yes, so they would have everyone believe, but in truth they had all turned to the dark side of the
Source. All save one.”
“The dark side?”
“Yes, the dark side is the cause of so much misery and suffering. Suffering which, I think you’ll
find, has no balancing joy.”
“Is not your relief the balancing joy?”
“I do not know, but our relief will end when the misery ends.”
“This explains much, but this new information just reinforces our decision. We find you
absolved of the charge of destabilising the equilibrium of the universe. Indeed, we find your efforts
to create stability admirable and worthy of support!”
Dubba Lentree stood and was followed by his fellows.
“Your Grace, Highness, friends. We salute you and seek to support you.”
As one, the line of Bukeepas bowed low.
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the gallery. The two note-taking Bukeepas hurried away as
into the room burst a fiery-eyed starship captain and his inarticulate side-kick. Captain Polo looked
down to see his friends below him and he launched himself at the chandelier.
“Don’t worry, guys. Old Dan is here to rescue you!”
“We’re not worried, Dan,” Mark called back. “I don’t think we need rescuing. Careful you don’t
break that chandelier!”
Dubba Lentree gazed up at the swinging starship captain.
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“We were just about to retire for cocktails, captain. Would you care to join us?”
“I think I’m stuck. How do I get off this thing?”
Dan was rescued with very little damage done, and after the necessary forms were completed
and the repairs were costed and paid for, they did indeed retire for a round of cocktails.
Their visit to Elysium, once they eventually landed, was just long enough for Mark to establish
that the planet’s financial arrangements were in as good order as when he had left. He introduced
his long-lost sister to his aunt and uncle and, despite their attempts at a low-key visit, word soon
spread around Little Elysium that the visiting Tamara West was none other that the new Queen
Tamara of Aldershott.
This led to a serious difficulty for the visitors, for the ladies of the Elysium Gardening Club soon
began to enmesh the royal pair in their clutches. They began to formulate plans for a string of
afternoon garden parties, with each matron seeking to outdo her fellows in playing the hostess.
It was Dan and Hewie who came to the rescue. They both laid on the act as hard-talking, harddrinking and hard-spitting ‘sons-of-bitches’, which in fact did not require too much acting. Hewie
hawked and spat like he never had before, and soon they were all allowed to depart, amidst much
muttering about the company that royalty kept these days.
Chapter 29
The Aldershott Media Corporation had begun its first HoloNet broadcasts by the time that the
Jubilee Endeavour returned to Corelfornia. Colonel Wannabee had not stinted himself in his efforts
to spread the word both about the discovery of the lost Princess and Prince of Aldershott and the
truth about the corrupt money system that threatened the stability of the galaxy.
With the ardour of the convert, and with the talents of thousands of willing and well-paid
programme creators, presenters and technicians, the message went out in various forms of
information and entertainment. It was aimed at catching the attention of and informing all the
sentient beings of the galaxy whatever their level of intellectual understanding.
Mark and Tamara, together with Kerry, Jerry and the colonel left the Corelfornian system aboard
their new headquarters ship, the Aldershott Revival, the giant former Star-cruiser from Harlooff.
They departed as soon as the huge ship was ready, for the reaction of the Empire to the new Queen
was still as yet unknown. Caution was still the watch-word. The Jubilee Endeavour with its
idiosyncratic crew went with them, just in case any more rescuing was needed.
Several newly commissioned freighters left the system as well, to establish the first HoloNet
relaying stations around the galaxy, whilst aboard the former Star-cruiser, a dozen studios created
and broadcasted a message of hope to the galaxy.
From necessity rather than personal preference, Mark and Tamara found themselves heavily
involved in the making of some of these broadcasts. They were dressed and coiffured, prettied and
prinked, made-up, cooled-down, rehearsed, coached, directed, prompted and interviewed until, after
several weeks, they decided they could take no more.
One day they joined Kerry, Jerry and the colonel in an informal conference to consider their next
move.
“We need to keep on the move for the time being,” advised the colonel. “Both to spread the word
more widely and to stay out of the Empire’s clutches.”
“Is the Empire our biggest worry?” asked Mark.
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“They must consider Her Grace to be a potential threat, Highness, although there’s been no
formal reaction to Her Grace that we have detected so far. Perhaps they think that if they ignore us,
so will everyone else.”
“But the Credit Masters will have the greatest concern over us, surely?”
“True, but he who pays the piper calls the tune. I think we can assume that the Credit Masters are
effectively controlling the Empire.”
“Father is, at least.”
“Yes, and if, as you say, your father is the Empire’s biggest paymaster, then at least he may not
want you both harmed. That may give us a degree of extra security.”
“I don’t know about father. He never really cared for us before,” mused Mark.
“Ah yes, but you’ve proved yourselves to be two immensely capable young people. A man like
your father will take great pride and pleasure in that...”
“In standing up to him?”
“Oh yes. Highness, oh yes, indeed.”
“Is it true that he has a bounty out for us? A million Imperial Credits each, if we’re handed over
to him alive and unharmed.”
“That just shows you how much he loves you.”
“Maybe so.”
“But you can carry on without us for a while, colonel?” asked Tamara.
“Certainly, Your Grace. You have further plans?”
“Yes, we have, plans for the future, plans for the creation of a New Aldershott. We’ll take the
Endeavour. Besides, if the Empire comes looking for us, the Revival is a more likely target as the
centre of the HoloNet. The Endeavour is just a scruffy little freighter.”
It was just a scruffy little freighter that landed in one of the docking bays on Tattoo One. Its visit
enabled its captain to pay off a debt to one of Tattoo One’s most prominent citizens.
Barcla the Hoard had business of his own in Skywalker City that day and he received the
overdue payment with its extra interest with scarcely a second thought until, with his minions
counting the currency, he happened to notice that a high proportion of the money was in Aldershott
shillings, new Aldershott shillings, in fact, bearing the face of a dancing girl whom he had once
owned. He oozed over and deigned to speak to the scruffy captain of the scruffy little freighter.
“Dan. You’ve been busy. Done well for yourself, I see.”
“There’s a lot more business about, Barcla. The economy’s picking up.”
Yes, but without it borrowing much from me, thought Barcla. Few of the lines of credit that he
had extended to potential rebel planets had, in fact, been taken up. They had found work and money
elsewhere.
“So how about a little job for me, Dan?”
“I can’t do that, Barcla. I’m already chartered.”
Barcla looked around for the outgoing freight and saw nothing.
“By whom?”
“Private charter.”
“Is there another kind?”
Dan shrugged, but he felt uncomfortable beneath the giant slug’s gaze. Barcla almost laughed.
He had spies enough around Skywalker City to tell him about Polo’s business without the starship
captain having to reveal a thing, but he liked to make people to feel uncomfortable. That made him
feel very comfortable.
The information that Polo had landed two passengers, two young humans, one male and one
female was very interesting and for reasons that Barcla could not explain, the knowledge that
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Nathan West had offered a large reward for the safe return of his son and daughter popped into his
thought processes.
The young man and woman who had passed through customs as Mattick Sponsard and Tiff
Woodsoe, sales representatives of the Harloof Starship Construction Company, had made their way
to one of the Skywalker City’s many cantinas. It was the sort of place that business might very well
be conducted between buyers and sellers in the starfreighter industry. Yet it was not with a starship
captain nor freighter company representative that the two young people shared a round of drinks.
The woman whom they met was one of the last farmers on the planet. Still struggling against the
ever drier conditions to make a living from the parched soil.
The three of them were watched when they left the cantina. They climbed aboard the woman’s
battered landspeeder to head out to visit a number of outlying farmsteads.
Barcla the Hoard sent no one to follow them. Tailing could not be done surreptitiously on Tattoo
One’s lonely trails, besides, they would have to return to Skywalker City in order to depart from the
planet.
Barcla the Hoard had a hunch, but then that was the way he was built. He also had a strong
feeling that this young couple from Harlooff were not all that they seemed, so he sent a signal to a
notorious bounty hunter, Fatt Bobb, of the No. 2 Alien’s Detective Agency. Would Fatt Bobb like a
slice of Nathan West’s generous bounty?
From one farmstead to another, Mark and Tamara travelled the dusty out-lands around
Skywalker City. They found themselves seated in a number of homely dwellings where, each time,
they outlined their plans for Tattoo One. Their reception ranged from the enthusiastic to the
sceptical, but no one offered any opposition. Many of the farmers were just to tired with their
hopeless battle with the climate. Their lined and drawn faces looked at their two young, would-be
saviours and dared not to hope too much.
Thus satisfied, Mark and Tamara travelled back to Skywalker City and the Endeavour. They said
their good-byes to their hostess and walked without concern through the town, back to the
Spaceport, quite oblivious of the fact that, once again, they were the subjects of intense scrutiny.
Passing along a narrow alley, their way was blocked by a large slug. Tamara recognised him,
and whilst her blood ran cold, she feigned indifference.
“Excuse us, please,” asked Mark politely.
Barcla gazed down at them both, a broad grin upon his features.
“Aren’t you going to say hello to your old master, my dear? Or is Your Grace too grand for the
likes of me, now?”
“What? What do you mean? We’re from Harlooff.”
“Don’t play games with me, my little ones. You are mine once again, but you will be pleased to
know that your father has a large bounty out for you both, for you alive and unharmed. But for that,
I would squash you both. You, Your Royal Queen-ness, with your wretched currency-notes, most
particularly. As it is, I shall place you in the secure hands of Fatt Bobb here, the notorious bounty
hunter and proprietor of the No.2 Alien’s Detective Agency. Take good care of them, Fatt Bobb,
and make sure that you forward my share of the reward.”
With that the blubbery slug oozed off to his next piece of nefarious business in Skywalker City.
Fatt Bobb, his face concealed by a battered helmet, pointed a gun at them and motioned them in the
direction of the docking bay that held his own private starship.
With the gun concealed by his free arm, and looking for all the world like a dutiful bodyguard,
Fatt Bobb prodded them along the back-streets of Skywalker City to the Spaceport. The Imperial
Customs officers had been suitably bribed and looked the other way, but a very hairy co-pilot who
was quietly sitting by a wall and spitting tobacco juice to see how far it would travel, also saw the
little party pass by.
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Hewie slipped back to the Jubilee Endeavour where in the longest speech Dan had ever heard
him say, Hewie explained all.
“Fatt Bobb got M & T.“
“Fatt Bobb?”
“Pppt.“
“You sure?”
“Pppt.”
“Hell’s teeth. We gotta rescue them!”
“Ppppt!”
“What’ll we need? What’ll distract a bounty hunter?”
Hewie held up a shilling note.
“Money?”
“Pppt.”
“Yeah, sure. Enough money’ll do it. Let’s get a case from the safe.”
The two men picked up the case of money and set off towards Fatt Bobb’s docking bay. The
bounty hunter was just closing up his doors when they arrived.
“Fatt Bobb! Howdie!”
“I am working,” intoned the bounty hunter tonelessly.
“So’m I... we,” agreed. Dan. “You have time for business?“
He allowed the case to open fractionally, to show off its contents.
“I’d like to buy your merchandise.”
“Not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale, if the price is right? You’re getting two million Credits, am I right? Say I
offer you three?”
“Three?”
“Yeah, well, sixty million Aldershott shillings, but it amounts to the same, don’t it?”
“Barcla the Hoard wants them out of the way.”
“He does. But you? What do you care?”
From their secure positions behind the cockpit, Mark and Tamara added their arguments.
“So how’d you earn your way, Fatt Bobb? Hunting smugglers and rebels? The galaxy’s
changing. Soon there’ll be no more customs taxes, so no more smugglers. There’ll be no more high
taxes or debts of any kind, so no more rebels. Who will you chase then? You could come and work
for us. We’ve got plenty of money, see?”
Dan opened the case some more, for the hunter to feast his eyes on the crisp new notes inside.
“Put the money down,” ordered Fatt Bobb. “I will count it.”
It did not take long for that expert in money counting to assess that the money was good and it
was all there. He locked it away in his on-board safe and then released Mark and Tamara.
“You go aboard your ship now,” he ordered. “Leave this planet within the hour or I capture you
again. Do not let Barcla’s people see you. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Back aboard the Jubilee Endeavour, they were off Tattoo One well within the hour, and, safely
in extra-orbital space, they considered their narrow escape, whilst the ship’s communications
systems scanned the HoloNet frequencies.
“That Fatt Bobb is one true professional. Best in the business,” declared Dan Polo.
“If he’s so good why’s he run the No.2 Alien’s Detective Agency?” asked Mark.
“Because, unlike most others, he really does give a shit. But what’s that you said about no taxes?
Is that for real?”
“Why not?”
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“It’s just that pretty much every government I ever come across, and I come across a few in my
time, likes to tax folks to pay for all their officialdom, and pretty much for the hell of it, as far as I
can see.”
“True, but why do governments want all the officials that they have?”
“Because that‘s what governments do, ain’t it? They govern. They need officials, bureaucrats to
do the work.”
“To some extent, but mostly they have all their layers of bureaucracies to overcome problems.”
“Problems?”
“Yes. For external threats you create a military, and for internal security a judicial and penal
system. For health problems you need a health service; and for the material needs of your less
economically able citizens, you need some sort of welfare programme. So you need government
departments with their budgets and spending to deal with and manage these problems, right?”
“Right.”
“And you need taxes to pay for this spending, and to pay the interest for past government
borrowing, when times where hard and the government could not get all the money it needed just
from taxation.”
“Yes, but that’s just the way things are...”
“Are, yes, but need not be. Supposing a government could afford to employ anyone who wanted
employment? Crime and welfare costs would be slashed. Supposing the level of debt and taxes on
private business was so small that the pressures on these businesses was reduced? There would be
less injuries and accidents caused by stress and overwork. People could work less and still enjoy a
standard of living to which they can now only aspire. Supposing there was fair trade between the
planets, with no great debt burden for any of them? Inter-planetary conflict would be reduced,
eradicated even.
“So you when you eradicate the need for spending that is the cause of two-thirds or threequarters of your budget, you reduce the need for taxation or borrowing. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Then, when you eradicate the need for borrowing, you reduce the need further, because you
remove the interest payments on borrowed money. You with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Right, so the government still needs to spend some money on its services and on new capital
projects, not least to soak up those who would otherwise be unemployed. You charge taxes to pay
for current services, which is only right as people have to pay for the things that benefit them,
whether directly or indirectly, but these taxes would need to be only a fraction of what they were
before. Yes?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“Then new projects, which will increase the overall wealth of the communities they serve, can be
paid for out the new money that the government will create which the economy will need as it
develops and diversifies. Again no need to borrow or to mortgage future generations. Do you see?”
Dan gazed at Mark non-committally.
“It’s too good to be true. What’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch. We stop people needing to create trouble for each other, and so stop the
expenditure that is necessary to solve the problems that such trouble causes.”
“If there’s so much less spending, won’t the Gross Galactic Product be reduced?” asked Dan. “I
can’t see many people liking that idea.”
“Yes, it will, but why worry? We should not get hung up upon the size of the GGP. Too much
and too long, we have surrendered community excellence and community values in the mere
accumulation of material things. Our Gross Galactic Product, now, is over 800 trillion Credits a
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year, but that GGP - if we should judge the galaxy by that - counts air pollution and tobacco
advertising, and ambulances to clear our speeder-ways of carnage.
“It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for those who break them. It counts the
destruction of the redwoods of Endwok and the loss of other natural wonders in a chaotic sprawl. It
counts Star-cruisers and the cost of the Debt Star, and the armoured troopers who patrol our streets.
It counts blasters and light-sabres and the HoloNet programs which glorify violence to sell toys to
our children.
“Yet the Gross Galactic Product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their
education, or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our
marriages, the intelligence of our debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither
our wit nor our courage; neither our wisdom nor our learning; neither our compassion nor our
devotion to our planets; it measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.”
“Hm! That sure was a pretty speech. Who said that?”
“I just did.”
A beep announced the arrival of a HoloNet communication. Colonel Wannabee appeared as a
hologram, about half size, on the control panel of the Jubilee Endeavour.
“Greetings, Your Grace. Colonel Wannabee here. I am pleased to report that your plans are
proceeding smoothly. We now have nine HoloNet transceivers in operation, with another five
shortly to be operational. We have lost one, and we suspect that it was destroyed by Imperial forces.
More planets are contacting us and in addition to Kerry and Jerry we now have eighteen fully
trained negotiators. We have more freighters and HoloNet transceivers being ordered, and the staff
to man them are being recruited and trained, and, with your permission, I should like to order
another headquarters ship. We have had a close brush with an Imperial Star-cruiser. Although the
Imperial authorities have not made any public denouncement of you, Your Grace, we suspect that
they have instituted a Discreet Search to secure your person, and we understand that several bounty
hunters are searching for you as well.
“My advice to you, Your Grace, is to stay hidden if at all possible. Those planets that are in
greatest need are being the most closely watched, as it is assumed that they are the ones that you are
most likely to visit. Several of our people have been taken in for questioning by Imperial
authorities, but as they have committed no offence, the Imperials have released them after a few
days. You are the key, Your Grace. You are the one they want, whether to get you out of the way or
to use you for their own ends. Stay out their way, Your Grace, and may the Source by with you.”
“Thank you, colonel. I shall heed your advice. You may order a new headquarters ship, and
anything else you require... And thank you for your good wishes... but I think that I am the Source!”
The colonel’s hologram was seen to smile and chuckle, then he disappeared and the four on the
Jubilee Endeavour considered one another for a few moments.
“So that’s it,” mused Mark, “the plan is rolling out and will continue to do so, Tamara, all the
time that you remain alive and free.”
“So maybe we can take a look at Tattoo Two,” suggested Tamara.
“Tattoo Two?” asked Dan. “That’s just a desert. Nothing but dry dust.”
“But we can still orbit it, can we not?” asked Tamara.
“Sure, Your Grace, sure. Whatever you say.”
The journey to Tattoo Two orbit was so short that a jump through hyper-space was neither
required nor possible. Below them the great planet shone its lambent topaz into the surrounding
space. The heat which bathed the glowing planet was almost tangible even from a thousand
kilometres above it surface.
Tamara and Mark gazed down upon it through image intensifiers until Tamara let out a squeal of
delight.
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“Ruins!” she cried. “Look, and that’s a dried up river bed!”
“I see it. Yes, and there’s more ruins along its banks,” replied Mark.
“You seen what, guys?” asked Polo, mildly interested.
“It is as we thought, Dan, it was once inhabited. It did once have life. It had rivers and look,
there’s a dried up lake, a big one too.”
“Sure. But the water’s all gone now.”
“No, not gone. Its all down there, but it’s in the atmosphere,” Mark told him. “The atmosphere is
so hot that it can hold an enormous amount of water vapour.”
“In the atmosphere? Really? So whatcha gonna do?”
“We will surround it with a night-cloak. That will drop its temperature and cause the
atmospheric vapour to condense and fall as rain, and then life will return to Tattoo Two.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No, Dan, we’ll use the night cloak to save Tattoo One at first. We’ll only need a partial one for
that, then use a full one for Tattoo Two. Which we will claim for our own and it will become a new
home for the survivors of Aldershott. It will become New Aldershott!”
“Wel, ain’t that just dandy. You guys don’t think small, do you? But I hope you guys ain’t
planning on going down there today, ’cos the temperatures down there will fry you alive.”
“Certainly not, Dan.”
“So you got any plans of where you want to go, to stay away from the Empire’s clutches
meantime?”
“No, Dan, we don’t know the galaxy like you do.”
“Well, maybe I know just the place. It’s run by an ol’ buddy of mine. I’ll sure be glad to see him
again. You know, I won the Jub off him at a hand of cards.”
“Really?”
“Yup, and now he’s running his own sovereign state, name of Cirrus City.”
Chapter 30
The planet Bestie was a gas giant in the middle regions of the I-Sector. Its core, which was quite
invisible, had been calculated as being a dense mass of liquid metal, and above this whirled
decreasingly dense layers of gas topped off by an oxygen rich layer just a 100 kilometres thick in
which air-borne organic life-forms were able to flourish. These, some of considerable size, were
borne aloft by the constantly rising thermals given off by the hot planet beneath them.
In this zone and the largest entity floating on these thermals, lay the human-created colony of
Cirrus City, a vast floating platform with pipes leading down to the gas fields below. It began life as
a mining operation, tapping into and extracting the rich gas layers thousands of kilometres beneath
it, but the kaleidoscopic vistas of the swirling gases made it into a sought-after if rather exclusive
holiday destination.
Casinos, restaurants, theatres and pleasures of a more physical nature developed in the city’s
upper levels, high above the mundane gas mining operations of its lower levels, and here the
galaxy’s super-rich liked to gather, to relax, to discuss business and to gamble with their millions.
“Now, Cirrus City is one cool joint,” explained Dan. “I would not even consider going there
’cept of being a buddy of ol’ Dandini, unless it was on business, of course. You have to be one real
upper crust dude to visit its pleasure zone.”
“We are royalty,” Mark reminded him, casually.
“Yes, but you ain’t going there as royalty, are you?”
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“No. We’ll be ordinary visitors from Corelfornia treating ourselves with a few days of the highlife.”
The Jubilee Endeavour docked in the cargo area, away from the sleek, luxurious starships of
Cirrus City’s more ostentatious visitors.
Dan contacted his ol’ buddy and the party was invited to supper later that ‘evening’. In the
meantime, they promenaded the City’s exquisitely designed walkways, where the vistas of the
swirling planet beneath them were a source of continuous fascination. Then they dined in one of the
middle-ranking restaurants, which was expensive enough for Tamara’s still rather homely ideas of
good personal economic management. Then, like the daring tourists that they portrayed, they
ventured into one of the more down-market casinos.
On Cirrus City, down-market is a relative term. Even here, the people around them, mostly
human but with a few other humanoid species represented, were clearly well-to-do, gambling away
their Credit Notes by the hundred.
“I could never see the point of gambling,” mused Tamara. “Don’t people realise the odds are
against them?”
“Yes,” agreed Mark. “But if you can afford it, it is just another way of spending money to get a
thrill.”
“Adrenaline,” agreed Dan. “That’s what it is. That’s what they’re after. Now me, I only play
games of skill, where knowledge and calculation tips the odds in a good player’s favour. You don’t
mind if I find me a game?”
“No, sure thing, Dan. You go ahead. Just don’t lose the Endeavour!”
Dan and Hewie bought themselves some chips and settled in to a table playing their favourite
game, indeed the very game and very table where they had won the Endeavour years before. It was
probably still the same game, just with a new set of players involved at this moment in time.
Mark and Tamara watched for a while, but, unable to follow the intricacies of the betting, they
drifted away and found themselves studying people rather than cards.
It was clear that certain areas in the pleasure zone were much more upmarket than the one where
Dan was comfortable. These others were places where a pot that included a battered old starfreighter would have been regarded as small change. Lacking the necessary membership cards, and
not prepared to part with the necessary money, Mark and Tamara were politely but firmly refused
entrance to certain areas, but this bothered neither of them.
One entrance was quite different in that not only was it barred by the usual well-dressed
functionaries, but it also possessed a door to prevent even an enticing glimpse of the inside from
being seen. It was used by several elegantly but modestly-dressed individuals. One of these was
clearly escorted by some large and muscular types, who appeared to be bulging out of their suits.
Cirrus City had a policy of allowing no weapons to be carried within its domain, but such a
proscription did not apply to fists and shaven heads. Mark spoke casually to a passer-by.
“What’s that place?”
The man smiled.
“Don’t even think of trying to get in there. Not unless you own a bank, of course.”
“No?”
“It’s a million on account just to step through that doorway.”
“Right. So what do they do?”
“Who knows? Maybe a quiet hand or two of whist, or maybe they bet on the financial affairs of
the galaxy.”
With that quip, the man left the ignorant yokel with the air of one who knows, but is not telling.
Mark returned to Tamara.
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“What do you know about the Credit Masters?” he asked his sister. “Other than father and Barcla
the Hoard, of course.”
“Not much, just what they do to create money. Why’d you ask?”
“I think we might be in the midst of them. Come on, let’s find a library terminal.”
They made their way to a Computer Cafe and settled down to a research session. They checked
the library files for information about all the major finance houses, including Western Credit and
Barcla & Hoard. The information was either non-existent or was so fantastically dense and obtuse
that gleaning anything useful would have been next to impossible, but in each case the registered
address came up as Cirrus City.
They checked this fact again. This address was not just the local address, that might have been
expected, but no, Cirrus City was the registered galactic address of all the major financiers. Their
own father had an office here somewhere. That was Western Credit’s registered galactic address.
“Imperial taxes are based on a planet’s population size, aren’t they?” Mark checked with his
sister.
“That’s right, the bigger the population the more it has to pay.”
“So Bestie would have a very small tax liability?”
“Yes.”
“Shared out between all the galactic finance houses, as well as the genuine residents, the tax
liability for each would be minute.”
Later that ‘evening’, the four visitors visited the headquarters of Cirrus City’s, and hence the
planet Bestie’s, Sovereign Administrator.
Dandini Charisma was a tall but elegantly proportioned man with raven black, curly hair, clear
brown skin, a carefully trimmed moustache and a flashing smile which revealed a perfect set of
white teeth. He and Dan embraced warmly.
“Dan, it’s good to see you, you’re a breath of fresh air. A reminder of old times. You haven’t
changed.”
“Hey, I change at least once a week! But look at you, you’re the grand one now. A Sovereign
Administrator no less.”
“I’m comfortable, but I miss the freedom of the old times. So how did an old rogue like you
wind up with such a charming young lady?“
Dandini kissed Tamara’s hand, before welcoming his guests to sit and partake of the supper laid
before them.
“Abasil and Soo are a couple of business friends from Corelfornia,” explained Dan gesturing
towards the royal pair.
“You’re from Corelfornia? A charming planet for a republic. Personally, I prefer the style of the
old monarchies. What do you make of this new Queen of Aldershott? I hear she holed up on
Corelfornia for a while,” asked Charisma.
“I did not see much of her,” replied Tamara, carefully.
“But she’s the real thing?”
“As far as we know,” said Mark.
“Spreading her good works around the galaxy?”
“Yes.”
“With her fiat money?”
“It leaves no debts.“
“That’s right. We use fiat money here on Cirrus City. I create it.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh. It runs our internal economy.”
“So taxes are low.”
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“Almost non-existent. We have full employment, a healthy and relaxed population. Crime is
almost unheard of, and never financially motivated.”
“But you have a number of very wealthy residents, as well as much less well-off workers? Is
there no friction?”
“No. Our very wealthy residents are largely just registered here. They are not permanent, mostly
they just have their representatives here. And they are not ostentatious, except maybe with their
starships. We don’t have room for ostentation.”
“But they are resident for tax purposes?” Mark dared.
“You ask a lot of questions for tourists, Abasil.”
“I am interested,” said Mark as casually as possible.
“We all have our own interests at heart. Now, I happen to know that some of my wealthier
residents are worried about this Queen of Aldershott. She is undermining their business. I have
heard that there’s a bounty on her head - alive and unharmed, of course, but I wonder what they or
their people would do if ever she were to visit Cirrus City?”
“You think she’s likely to?”
“Very unlikely. We’ve certainly sent no one to her offering her our goods and services or a slice
of real-estate in exchange for some of her money. We don't have any real-estate, and she doesn’t
sound like a gambler, or tourist.”
“And you, Dandini, what’s your take on the Queen?”
“Me? I hear that her plan is to reduce the taxes and debts of the entire galaxy. That should reduce
the likelihood of wars and rebellions, and that suits me fine. Here in Cirrus City, we’re a tiny
population sitting on a great resource of gas. We could not defend ourselves. So, yes, her plans suit
me very well indeed.”
“You are not worried about your wealthier residents?”
“No. They pay very little into the Cirrus City economy. That’s why they’re based here! Their
presence gives us some protection in times of difficulty, but if the difficult times don’t come
around, we’ve really very little use for them, apart from adding a lustre to our social scene. Yes, I’d
genuinely welcome the Queen here, but I can’t protect her, certainly not from the Empire and not
even from some of my more ‘self-interested’ residents.”
He looked significantly at his guests.
Short of the gambling, socialising, theatre-going and dining-out that was the standard itinerary
for visitors to Cirrus City, and one that suited most of them quite adequately, there was little to
interest Mark and Tamara and soon they both itched to get inside the mysterious inner-sanctum of
the ‘millionaires club’. They could easily afford the apparent ‘membership fee’, but that was the
least of their difficulties. They discussed it with Dan.
“You will be walking into a lion’s den,” Dan warned them. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought
you here.”
“No, Dan. You did the right thing. So what can they do, to us?”
“What they will want to do to you, Your Grace, is get you out of the way, kill you even. It don’t
matter to some of them about you being your daddy’s daughter. They ain’t interested in the bounty,
that’s peanuts to them, and there’s lots of ways a person could have a fatal accident, so they’d be
free from suspicion. Iffin they just suspected that you are who you are... Don’t reckon even I could
rescue you.”
That admission sobered them, and they respected Dan’s advice, but still the itch persisted.
Two days later they paid twenty-five million Aldershott shillings into an account with the
unnamed ‘place’, they received their ‘membership’ documents and were cordially received by the
functionary on the door when next they presented themselves.
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The room was but dimly lit. All around, covering the walls, where huge screens showing lists of
numbers. Against these numbers on one wall, Mark and Tamara recognised the names of planets,
on others the names of the larger galactic corporations, on a third were lists of commodities, whilst
the fourth list consisted of nothing but obscure initials. In the centre of the room, dozens of greysuited young human and humanoid males studied computer terminals, glancing up occasionally at
the numbers around them. Occasionally a couple of them would turn around on their stools and
high-five each other. They ignored Mark and Tamara utterly.
A gallery ran around the room. It was above the young computer workers and below the winking
number screens. Mark and Tamara made their way up here. They discovered that off the gallery
were a number of modestly-sized but luxuriously furnished offices. Most were in use, but some
seemed quite empty. One of these bore a number that appeared on their ‘membership’ cards. Mark
placed his card in the door entry system, and the door opened quietly.
“Our own office,” he said, gesturing Tamara inside.
Inside Tamara turned to her brother.
“Here we are. What now?”
“We watch. We study. What else? It certainly does not feel like a lions’ den.”
They arrival, however, had not gone unnoticed. A trio of men on the far gallery, all significantly
older than those in the pit below, had watched the brother and sister make their uncertain way
around the room. They had studied the rather hesitant opening of the office door and they were
intrigued.
Tamara had first attracted them, she was attractive enough to turn any man’s head, and women
were a rarity in that testosterone charged atmosphere. Then there was their age. Old enough to be
serving in the pit below, but far too young to be opening up a new office.
The trio put their heads together. The young woman’s face was familiar. The young man was
physically alike and possibly related to her. They were very young, but had money. They had gone
nowhere near the Western Credit office, but that meant nothing. West was still chasing his children,
so they had heard. If they were the Wests, they were either recklessly brave or entirely ignorant.
So, wondered the trio, were they who they might be, and if so, why were they here? Minions and
aides were quickly summoned and set the task of discovering these facts.
Mark and Tamara stood inside their office and gazed down through the window to the activity
below.
“So what exactly are they doing?” asked Tamara.
“Gambling,” replied Mark.
“Gambling? Surely not.”
“Pretty much. I’ve read snippets about it, thought about it all, put two and two together, but to
see it all in the flesh so to speak...”
“But look at those lists, those planets, commodities, companies and... whatever those things are.
Surely it’s an important part of running the galactic economy?”
“No, not really, except in as much as the economy has grown to depend upon it. Like a pet dog
that is fed tit-bits from its master’s table. But the purpose of the master eating is not to ensure that
his pet is fed, that is just incidental. You know how much we have spent to revive some planetary
economies?”
“Millions.”
“Yes, but look at those figures up there. They are not millions, they are billions, thousands of
millions.”
“The wealth of the economy?”
“No, not the wealth, the money. There is a difference.”
“But there’s billions of Credits shown on there. What’s it for?”
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“It’s the accumulated profits of years of money creation and debt-collecting, and this is where it
ends up, being used to gamble against the accumulated billions of other members of the super-rich.
It serves no useful purpose for ordinary people. The easiest way to earn more money when you
have large amounts of it is not to make things or provide services. That costs large amounts of
money and the risk of failure is high. No, the easiest way to earn money is to buy and sell with the
money you have - government stock, corporations, commodities, anything - to gamble that your
information is more accurate that the other guy’s. Okay, you might lose now and then, but it’s a far
quicker way of making money than building factories or investing in some new idea that will soon
be replaced by another new idea. And the more money you have, the more you can control the
market to your own ends, so every penny profit that financiers make in the real world by creating
money out of thin air is invested into these games to gain a bigger slice of the cake.”
“To what ultimate end?”
“There is no ultimate end. Its not a process designed with an end in view. It is just the latest
manifestation of the Source.”
“I thought you said that the Source was the capacity to create money.”
“The Source is what happens to be, at any one moment in time, the most powerful influence in
shaping life. At the present time, we cultural beings are the greatest influence upon life. Before us it
was those factors amongst pre-cultural creatures that gave an individual the greatest breeding
capacity within his species, and I do mean ‘he’ - a shaggy mane, a large physical size, tusks or
antlers. Nowadays the Source lies within our culture, our ideas, our customs, our patterns of
behaviour, even in the songs we sing. We shape the universe to suit ourselves. We breed new
species of plant and animals. We terra-form planets for our purposes. We build. We destroy. All to
follow those cultural forces that influence us, and the greatest influence over us is money. So yes,
those with the capacity to create money have that power. They control, or perhaps they are, the
Source.”
“Like I have that power, I am the Source.”
“You have... maybe you are a source of power, Tamara, but you are not the Source. You are
different. You have the power because of what you are, not what you have done. That gives you the
potential of having a unique combination of power and benevolence, as you are not hidebound by
ambition, but it also makes you very vulnerable. Hell, we shouldn’t be here! This is crazy!”
“Calm down, Mark. Tell me more.”
“You have the authority to create money, but your capacity came by accident of birth, not
through ambition. You have not sought the Source, so it has not become your life’s focus, your
obsession. Your life is not governed by the need to control or be the Source, so you are not
controlled by it, so in that that sense you are not... you have not become a tool of the Source.
“Those others who understand and seek to control the Source, who do control it in some sense,
the Credit Masters of old who became today’s bankers and financiers, have become so focused on
their narrow ambition, that in a sense their ambition now runs their lives. They have lost control of
themselves and now they themselves are little more than tools of the Source.
“The one thing that now drives them is just to know that amongst the select few of the most
powerful men in the galaxy, they are the most powerful, but in a real sense, they no longer have any
power. It’s like if you became obsessed with conquering a mountain, so much so that you could
think about nothing else, the mountain has, in fact, conquered you. The mountain, or the idea of
conquering the mountain, is the controlling force in the relationship. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, I see. I think I see.”
“So in a sense, all that goes on in here bears no more relevance to the lives of real people than
some mountaineers climbing a lonely mountain. Except that here, the lives of ordinary people are
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the crampons and ropes and other things that these mountaineers use and discard in their climb to
the top.”
“So what is the dark side of the Source?”
“The dark side is that narrow focus on personal ambition to the exclusion of the well-being of
everyone else. It affects all creatures who have no sense of self-awareness, as well as those who do
have such a sense, but who choose to abandon themselves to blind ambition. When they have
surrendered all sense of morality or ethics, pointless, destructive ambition is in control. It is not
evil, it is just a state of unenlightenment, but its effects can be much the same as what we call evil.”
“And this is it?”
“This is it, manifested all around us.”
“And do you think that our plans will undermine all this?” asked Tamara.
“Yes, most of it. That part which does not directly relate to the trade in real goods and services,
which is most of it.”
“But if all this collapses Mark, won’t that cause a whole load of problems?”
“No, Tamara. This money market and what it represents is the problem. It is the central cause of
pretty much all of the galaxy’s problems. Do you know what is the biggest thing that is traded
here?”
“No, what? Kryptonite? Platitudinum? Tibannium? Grain? Oil? Droids? Starships?”
“No, none of those things. It’s debt. Look at those numbers. They represent the amount of debt
owed by the Imperial government, by planetary governments, by corporations and by individuals in
their millions. You understand the need to eradicate debt, leastways debt of this magnitude?”
“Sure I do, I’ve been working on it too, remember!”
“Right. So when we do eradicate it, what need will there be for a trade in it?”
“Well, when you put it like that... But I still can’t see that all this... this money market business
serves no purpose other than... aggrandisement.”
“That’s because you’re a woman, Tamara. Women have no idea that for many men, perhaps
most men, the whole purpose in life is to be the biggest swinging dick in the universe. For those
with the greatest ambition and ability, and the nous to understand it, the greatest prize of all is to be
top of this pile of parasites, but this is nothing more than the showy mane or the cumbersome
antlers of galactic civilisation, and it serves no more purpose to the well-being of their fellows than
such manes or antlers.”
Mark and Tamara closed up their office and left the ‘place’ just as the trio of older watchers
began receiving reports to the effect that the young woman in question could well be, or almost
certainly was, the new Queen Tamara of Aldershott. The instructions given back to certain wellbuilt aides, needed no elaboration or explanation. Even in a well run place like Cirrus City,
accidents could happen.
“I think we need to leave this place,” said Tamara.
“Yes,” agreed her brother. “Let’s find Dan and say our good-byes to Dandini.”
As it was, Dandini found them. He greeted them warmly enough, then added in a guarded
undertone.
“You need to leave.”
“We were planning to,” agreed Tamara. “How did you know?”
“There’s an Imperial Star-cruiser in orbit. I can’t think who else they’re looking for.”
“What?!”
“I’m sorry, I’ve tried to delay their arrival, but I can’t say no to a Star-cruiser. Go! Quickly!”
Mark and Tamara walked as fast they could, whilst appearing relaxed and unconcerned, to an
elevator which would take them to the docking area. The door opened and from it stepped the huge
black form of Lord Bader, backed up by a squad of Stormtroopers.
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“Your Grace,” rumbled the big man. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Chapter 31
The hard-working citizens of Standardia accumulated a vast hoard of gold. Even the laziest
amongst them accumulated a fair quantity, as great nuggets were lying just beneath the subsoil.
After just a few days of work, sweat and privation, they all began to drift home with their treasure.
Back in Standardia City, the gold was initially eagerly traded, until those who then had piles of
yellow rocks began to look enviously at those who then had the land, the houses, the livestock, the
buggies and the food.
After much argument, the arrangement was made that the Great Society of Standardia would sell
more land to people in exchange for their yellow rocks. The yellow rocks would then be used to pay
off the planet’s debts.
When Greenboi arrived at Standardia City Interplanetary Spaceport, he received the, by now,
familiar over-enthusiastic welcome. He did not detect that within the cheering was a note of extraconfidence. Confidence was a feature that the Great Society had never lacked.
Governor Stardust greeted him warmly and together they held aloft their hands to receive the
applause, screams, whistles and yells of the watching crowd.
On reviewing the planet’s finances, the Governor had made a disturbing discovery. The amount
of loan that he had expected to take out this year would have been six hundred dollars, but the
amount of the repayment this year was going to be six hundred and forty dollars. He remembered...
he half remembered the passionate argument of that Tammy Woodsawyer girl a couple of years
earlier, she who had then turned up last year with her own private starship.
He could not remember all the details of her argument, but this of paying back more than they
would be borrowing had caused him to wonder. He had discussed the situation around the town,
surreptitiously amongst the more sober folks. The idea of borrowing more than six hundred and
forty was mooted, and dismissed, and they could not pay less than the due interest, so what was to
be done?
The niggling feeling crept into the Governor, that that goddam Tammy girl had been right all
along. He could not think it likely, her being just a young woman, but no other way of looking at
things seemed to add up.
So the plan was decided upon that the Great Society of Standardia would use the gold that its
people had collected to pay off the debt. They had tons of the stuff. Some people even used nuggets
to decorate their porches. It was shiny and pretty, and it was heavy and useless, but it would buy
back their planet.
Except that it would not. Offered a whole ton of it, Greenboi ignored it, he even flinched in
horror when a large nugget was held up in front of him.
“So, what is the exchange rate on gold?” asked the Governor, trying to kindle Greenboi’s
interest.
“I do not know.”
“Isn’t it important?”
“No. You have the six hundred and forty dollars interest that is due?”
“Sure, but this gold must be worth something.”
“Everything is worth something.”
“So what will you give us for it.”
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“I will give you nothing for it. It is heavy and useless. I have no use for it and I have no
authorisation to purchase any.”
“But it’s gold!”
“That is correct.”
“You have to give us something for it!”
“No, I do not. Do you wish to borrow some more money?”
“When we have all this gold? We don’t need your money, now. We’ve got this gold.”
“Very well. Goodbye.”
So the Great Society of Standardia adopted the gold standard. The gold was melted down into
coins of equal size which were each given the value of one Standardian dollar. These were then
used to buy up all the paper currency in circulation. This totalled $1240, against which the planet
owed Barcla the Hoard $3200. Tex Stardust wondered about this. The difference could be made up
with gold coins, they had plenty of those to spare, but only if Barcla the Hoard accepted them.
Similar concerns had been on the minds of some of the people of Bacchanalia. Here the newly
created planetary currency was also called dollars, but it existed purely as numbers in people’s
accounts. People were paid the equivalent in dollars for every Imperial Credit Note that they paid
into the Bank of Bacchanalia. A further thousand dollars was created into the Commonwealth’s
account to pay for public works.
Yet with the arrival imminent of their creditor’s representatives the amount of Imperial Credit
Notes that had been collected amounted to only some 820. The planet needed 1200 Imperial
Credits. Two hundred to pay this year’s interest and a further thousand to pay off the principle.
Sheila Diggerdigger asked everyone to check that they did not have any more, in pockets, down the
back of sofas, tucked away for a rainy day. She was sure that there had to be about 1300 in total.
She discussed the matter with Howie.
“We still had five hundred of our own left over after buying those surfboards, we borrowed a
thousand and paid one interest payment of two hundred, so we should have thirteen hundred left
over.”
“Come on Sheil, you’ve been over this a hundred times already.”
“I reckon it’s that Bruce Brewsterson. He’s got the rest, I know it!”
“I don’t think he has, Sheil, but come on let’s just go and check with him.”
“G’day, fellers,” called Brucie cheerily, but he could tell by the look on Sheila’s face that this
would be no social call.
“Brucie, we have to sort out this money before them Western Credit fellers come a-calling. By
my calculation we’re 480 Credits short.”
“Nothing to do with me Sheil. My debts are all paid.”
“Nothing to do with you eh, Brucie? Well, sit down a minute and let me tell you what’s what.”
“No worries, Sheil,” said Brucie, rolling his eyes at Howie.
“Now listen here, Bruce Brewsterson. We’ve got 820 Credits. We have a debt of one thousand
Credits that needs two hundred Credits a year to pay the interest. We can service this debt for
another four years and then what will happen?”
“I don’t know. What will happen?”
“No. I don’t know neither, but I can’t see us just jogging along nicely as we have been doing. I
don’t know what will happen, but I can’t see your business surviving either. If Western Credit takes
over this planet...”
“What? You’re kidding me?”
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“Okay, so you tell me what will happen? If the Commonwealth of Bacchanalia goes bankrupt,
do you think that the Imperial authorities will just say ‘No worries, guys, you just carry on.’?”
“So what’s your solution, Sheil?”
“We need another 380 Credits to clear this debt. By my calculation, there should another 480
around somewhere...”
“And you think I’ve got it?”
“Anyone else you can think of?”
“I’ve paid my debts off. I’ve paid for my brewery and refrigeration system, paid my interest and
my principle. I’m all square, and I don’t have any Credits tucked away.”
“Wait a minute,” thought Sheila. “You’ve paid... you’ve paid what?”
“I paid for the brewery and the fridge and I’ve paid off the money I borrowed.”
“How much have you paid?”
“What altogether?”
“No, what did you spend to buy things and to pay off your interest?”
“The brewery equipment cost me 200, the refrigeration system 120, and I paid, let me see 100,
120... er, 160 Credits in interest.”
“Two hundred, plus one twenty, plus one sixty is 480. There’s our missing money.”
“There you go then, Sheil. No worries.”
“No worries?! You arsehole! That means we’re buggered.”
“Buggered?”
“We can now never pay off that debt.”
“Sure we will, Sheil.”
“Listen. Let me spell this out. We owe 1000 Credits. We have 820 Credits. Our extra-planetary
income is zero. Looks like we’re gonna end up as somebody’s slaves. That’s what happens... yeah, I
heard about that somewheres. When you’ve nothing else to sell to pay off your debts, you end up
selling yourself.”
“You worry too much, Sheil. Have a beer.”
“Unless,” thought Sheila, thinking fast. “Unless we can get a message to Kerry and Jerry.”
“Kerry and Jerry? How?”
“Through them Western Credit fellers, when they visit next time.”
“What ‘Please save us, we’re in hock to some debt-slavers’? You think they’ll send that
message? ’Cos I don’t think so.”
“It does not have to say that, just something that will make them realise that we have an
emergency on our hands.”
Chapter 32
As soon as he learnt that Mark and Tamara had been captured by the Empire, Dan Polo collected
Hewie where he had left him happily playing a slot machine and chewing his tobacco. He made his
way to Dandini and prepared to have a showdown with his long-standing friend, but the Sovereign
Administrator’s grovelling apology made Dan realise that no benefit would be gained by falling out
with him. Moreover, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that there had been no way
that Cirrus City could stand up to an Imperial Star-cruiser.
Instead, hurrying as fast as they dared without appearing to do so, just in case there were some
suspicious Imperials still lurking about, the two men made their way to the docking area, boarded
the Jubilee Endeavour and cleared for take-off.
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In extra-orbital space, they saw the Imperial Star-cruiser position itself for its hyper-space jump.
Dan wanted to contact the Aldershott Revival as soon as possible, but he decided to wait until the
Imperial ship was on its way. Eventually, after disgorging its rubbish, the giant ship disappeared
into hyper-space.
When he did send his message, Dan wondered what a miserable looking figure his hologram
would present, so he said nothing about the disappearance of the royal pair. Instead he just
requested an immediate rendezvous.
With the co-ordinates for the hyper-space trip calculated, and the jump commenced, Dan sat
down with Hewie to assess the situation and to work out how much blame lay at his own door.
“Hot damn it, Hewie. I never even got a chance to rescue them.”
“Pppt,” agreed his sidekick.
As soon as the Jubilee Endeavour was safely docked aboard the Aldershott Revival, Dan and
Hewie hurried to meet the colonel. They did not have far to walk as he had come down to meet
them, as had Kerry and Jerry.
“Oh, it’s so good you’ve come back,” called Jerry. “We have a problem.”
“You have?” asked Dan.
“You said that this rendezvous was urgent, Captain Polo. Where are Her Grace and his
Highness? Jerry what’s this problem?” The colonel fired off his questions.
“They’ve been captured!” gasped Polo. “On Cirrus City. I couldn’t do anything!”
“Who? Mark and Tamara?” asked Jerry.
Dan broke down and sobbed, nodding his answer.
“Is that your problem, Jerry?” asked the colonel.
“No. We just got word that Bacchanalia’s brewery is malfunctioning.”
Dan looked up.
“Hey man, that’s bad. You guys like your beer.”
“Yeah, but it’s not as bad as your news.”
“What were you saying, Captain Polo?” demanded the colonel, trying to get things prioritised.
“I wasn’t actually saying anything, colonel. I was sobbing with grief.”
“But you say captured, not killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’ll have to rescue them.”
“Hey, I was about to suggest that,” cried Polo, a tad peevishly.
Chapter 33
With Mark and Tamara in close confinement, the Star-cruiser sped through the dark recesses of
hyper-space until it emerged into sub-light speed a short distance from the Corrugate system.
The planet of Corrugate, lying as it did at the geographical heart of the galaxy, had long been
recognised as the galaxy’s political centre, even before the Empire formalised its position and
renamed it Imperial Capital.
It was the sort of name that only an unimaginative bureaucrat could dream up, and only then
after a long series of committee meetings and consultation papers. It was well suited for the capital
of the Empire.
Here every major corporation had its working heart, the departments of Imperial Government
had their headquarters, the planets of the Empire had their trade and public relations missions.
Universities and research facilities, both public and private, had their sprawling campuses here, and
the Emperor ruled all from his vast palace.
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Nothing was manufactured in the Imperial Capital. Nothing was grown, or mined, or generated.
Everything had to be shipped in, sucked in indeed, by the fleets of freighters that supplied the planet
and its people with all their material needs.
There was only one thing over which the Imperial Capital concerned itself and that one thing
was information. At every level, from the smallest software creator to the Emperor himself, every
one in the Imperial Capital was devoted to finding, storing, analysing, managing, enabling and
generally dealing with information, whether it was academic, business, administrative or political.
Information gave those who had it power over those who did not.
The Star-cruiser moved into geo-stationary orbit around the planet. It was tethered to a mooring
satellite that moved around the planet a thousand kilometres from its surface. Under the close
personal guard of Lord Bader and his hand-picked squad of Stormtroopers and diplomatic staff,
Mark and Tamara found themselves ensconced in a small capsule that shot down the space-elevator
tube at Mach 3.
Within the hour, they were inside the Emperor’s private quarters. Red-cloaked guards of the
Imperial Bodyguard stood around gazing at the newcomers with eyes hidden by all-enveloping
helmets and masks. Presently a door opened and the brother and sister were led inside.
The figure whom they had seen before, covered with his loose black cloak, sat on the highbacked leather-cushioned swivel chair that stood upon the small dais. Lord Bader strode forward
and went down on one knee.
“I bring you the Queen Tamara and the Prince Marco of Aldershott, My Master.”
“You have done well, Lord Bader.”
Bader stayed kneeling.
“I said you have done well, Lord Bader. You may rise.”
“Thank you, My Master, but my legs are stuck. I think the ankle joints need oiling.”
The Emperor summoned a couple of guards to rise the Lord Bader to his full magnificent height.
Then the Master of the Galaxy turned his attention on his prisoners. He beckoned them forward
with a gnarled finger.
“We meet again,” he rasped. “What have you to say?”
“Hello,” said Mark.
“Hello,” said Tamara.
“Hmm. You have caused me much trouble in seeking you out.”
“Then why not just leave us alone?”
“Alone? I am the Emperor. I cannot have my subjects going about the Empire creating money
out of thin air. It will cause no end of trouble.”
“But you did not remove the legal-tender status of Aldershott shillings.”
“No. I cannot... People are sentimental fools. The name of Aldershott provokes emotions that I
cannot... need not arouse. Better let it fade away without too much fuss.”
“But you do not prevent the Credit Masters from creating money, billions of Credits worth.”
“Credit Masters?! The Credit Masters are long gone!”
“No, not gone! They turned to the dark side and set up the banks and finance houses of the
Empire.”
“Did they? Like your father?”
“Yes, like my father. Every time they lend money, to the Imperial government, to planetary
governments, to businesses or to individuals, they do not lend actual money. They create the
money, out of thin air. They create a credit. They lend their borrowers a credit, who spend it with
someone else who pays it into their own bank. No money exists, it is just numbers in computers,
being passed around.”
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“But the financiers lend me money to pay for the Imperial battle-fleet. They pay to keep the
Empire in being,” said the Emperor. “Your father most particularly.”
“They do not pay. The people who pay are the ordinary people who have to work hard to pay the
taxes that pay for these credits, to pay the interest on them, an interest that keeps growing as ever
more of this spurious money is borrowed. And the people do not like high taxes, not when they are
also heavily in debt themselves. Some planets are so heavily in debt that rebellion is their only
serious option... was their only serious option. Now they look to us with a new hope.”
“Rebellion will be crushed, and I will be glorious in victory.”
“Rebellion, once it starts, will involve the whole galaxy. You will be left with nothing to fight it
with!”
“You are insolent!”
“I am honest!”
“You are trying to wrest this Empire from my control. Yes, I see it all now. Yes, you plan to buy
up this Empire with your wretched shillings!”
“We are trying to stop war!”
“By paying money to rebellious planets?”
“Not yet rebellious. None have yet rebelled, have they?. We offer them hope. Why don’t you?”
“What?”
“Why do you not assume the right and responsibility of issuing the galaxy’s money? The
privilege of creating and issuing money is not only the supreme prerogative of government, but it is
the government’s greatest creative opportunity. By the adoption of these principles, the taxpayers
will be saved immense sums of interest.”
“Who said that?”
“I just did. Whoever creates and controls the money supply has the ultimate power, for today
that is the ultimate Source of power. You are the Emperor. That power should be yours.”
“It should...”
The Emperor shifted uneasily.
“It should, yes, but... we never did economics at my school...”
“That’s it, is it?” asked an astonished Mark. “You abandon your rights and responsibilities on
matters economic because you think that it is a difficult subject?”
“Yes, “ admitted the Emperor.
Mark threw up his hands, clasped his head and sighed aloud. The Emperor watched him, and
realised that he was quite embarrassed.
“There is no need to get all dramatic,” the Master of the Galaxy chided the boy in front of him,
trying to re-assert himself.
Mark tried not to laugh. Then he tried to think of how to begin a suitable explanation. He
glanced at his sister.
“Do you have anywhere we could sit down and discuss this, My Master. Maybe over a drink or
something?” Tamara asked.
“You acknowledge me as your Emperor?” gasped the Emperor.
“Sure, why not? And a guy like you is bound to have a drinks cabinet somewhere handy.”
The Emperor, as Mark and Tamara discovered, liked to eat black olives with his cocktails. They
also discovered that like very many able and ambitious people, he was not very good with numbers,
but was scared stiff to admit the fact. So over the years he had been putty in the hands of the
bankers and financiers who had flocked around him, with their complicated formulas, their obscure
jargon, their graphs and statistics, their grave and serious countenances and their offers of credit for
the Empire.
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Sitting around the Emperor’s coffee table, with Lord Bader ensconced in a wheelchair whilst his
dodgy legs were fixed, they sipped their cocktails and picked at their olives. Mark and Tamara
briefly ran through all that a galactic leader needed to know about money to run a successful
economy.
They explained how it was that money was a purely artificial creation. That it had to be
deliberately created and fed into an economy to make the economy work. That just the right amount
was needed. Too much would result in inflation, too little in stagnation, but that money was not
created by economic activity per se.
They explained how any source of money creation, other than that created for the benefit of the
public purse, would effectively mean that a section of the economy would end up being subsidised
by the rest, creating a shortage of the brightest personnel in more important industries and services.
They talked about how, if money was created as a debt, that debt could never be repaid, as the
amount of money needed to repay the debt would always be greater than the amount created. So the
debt would grow and be inherited by future generations.
They showed how, if the money supply was only influenced by changing base lending rates, the
net result would be a wobbly economy, forever lurching between boom and bust.
They further explained that, when banks and financiers created money out of nothing when they
extended credit to borrowers, they were apt to be very cavalier, lending money to those who could
barely afford to repay the money and whose use for the money was not soundly based.
They explained how inflation was caused by too much money chasing too few goods and
services, and that debt-based money was inherently inflationary as more and more had to be created
just to pay the growing interest charges, even above and beyond the natural growth in economic
activity.
They concluded by explaining how fiat money did not need to consist of notes and coins, but
could be created as computer-records or ledger-book entries. It was money created by the state for
the benefit of the people, and it would mean that taxes could be kept low both for the present and in
the future. A population that enjoyed low taxes, full employment, good public services, would have
little cause for rebellion, so spending on security could be kept to a minimum as well.
Furthermore, provided that it was limited to being a means of paying for new capital projects or
to pay off existing debts, it would have no inflationary effect.
The Emperor tried to absorb as much of this as he could, and he had his aides taking notes. Yet it
was not easy to understand it all in one go and he was thankful when Mark and Tamara finally
finished.
“So if we put these ideas into action, you say that there won’t be any need for huge battle-fleets
of Star-cruisers, squadrons of Bow-fighters, or battalions of Stormtroopers with their walking,
elephant-like transports?” asked the Emperor at length.
“No, My Master.”
“Not even a Debt Star?”
“No.”
“It’s not very glorious, is it?” grumbled the Emperor.
“But it will be good for the Health Service,” Lord Bader reminded him, considering his own
inadequate prosthetic legs. “And with this government-created money reducing costs elsewhere, it
will enable a good pension to be paid to wounded war heroes.”
Chapter 34
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Down in the Imperial Palace Mews, a group of visitors was muttering discontentedly amongst
themselves.
“I still can’t see how this conducted tour of the Palace Mews is going to help us rescue Mark and
Tamara,” muttered Jerry.
“Her Grace and His Highness,” the colonel corrected him.
“So what’s your plan to get inside the Palace?” Dan asked the colonel.
“Well, I had thought of getting a job as a cleaner, then with mop and bucket I could fight my
way through the guards.”
“So why not?” asked Dan.
“Its all carpets, isn’t it? No need for mops and buckets and I can’t fight with a vacuum cleaner.
I’d get the cord tangled up.”
“Hiya, guys,” a familiar voice called them.
Out of a door of the Palace emerged Mark and Tamara.
“So what are you guys doing here?” asked Tamara.
“We’re here to rescue you. I thought the Emperor had you in his clutches,” replied Dan
“He did, at first, but really he just needed help with his money problems, I mean, you can’t very
well pop along to the Citizen’s Advice Bureau when you’re the Galactic Emperor, can you? He’s
actually a really nice guy when you get to know him. Did you know, his first name is Gorgewalker?
Oh, and he says that we can have Tattoo Two and call it New Aldershott. Isn’t that great? So where
to now?”
“You are free?” asked the colonel suspiciously.
Tamara gazed about.
“It looks like it.”
“But your plans? To save the galaxy from its debts and to prevent the rebellion?”
“Oh, the Emperor liked our ideas and intends to implement them.”
“That’s it?” asked the colonel. “It all ends just like that? Shouldn’t there be a big spectacular
explosion involved somewhere?”
“You think that spectacular explosions solve things, colonel?”
“No, not as such, but... I can’t believe it’s all so easy.”
“Everything is easy when you know what you are doing, colonel. It’s like you with your mop
and bucket.”
“I see.”
“The Empire is sorted. Once you get to the root of the big, underlying problem, all the little
problems sort themselves out. All the consequences and symptoms of the root cause just disappear.”
“So everyone lives happily ever after?”
“Yes, why not? Who’s going to have a problem?”
“The Credit Masters? They will not be happy.”
“Not at first, but they will eventually benefit in ways that they cannot yet understand. We will
have removed a dreadful tyranny from them that they did not even know had them in its control.”
“Even so, Your Grace, Highness. I think we should beware of them.”
“What can they do, colonel?”
“Kill you.”
“Kill us? There will be no profit in that.”
“Maybe profit will not be their motive.”
“Profit is their only motive, colonel. Okay, guys. We can all go home now. Unless anything else
needs sorting.”
“Well, there’s like this dire emergency on Bacchanalia,” suggested Jerry.
“What’s that?”
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“The brewery’s malfunctioning.”
“You’re kidding? Oh, come on. What are we waiting for?”
When they arrived on Bacchanalia, after a long journey through hyper-space to the Outer Rim of
the galaxy, they found that the brewery was not, after all, malfunctioning, but a few beers soon
smoothed ruffled feathers and Sheila Diggerdigger was able to explain the real reason for the
distress call. The planet had a debt that it could not repay, and unless it was somehow found, they
would all end up as the debt-slaves of Nathan West.
When they realised the amounts involved, Kerry and Jerry opened their wallets and found the
required sum amongst their small change.
The Bacchanalians organised a barbie on the beach. This was no great shakes, as they had a
barbie on the beach most evenings, but this one was in celebration of their freedom from debt.
Toasts were drunk. A few speeches were attempted. Some people had little real idea what the
fuss was all about, save that Sheila Diggerdigger no longer had a face like a constipated jimbuck,
which was reason enough for celebration.
The visitors spent a while on Bacchanalia. They were all due for some time just to chill out,
relax and do nothing much, to enjoy life on the beach, to learn to surf, and to teach those who were
interested the basic facts of good financial management.
The Bacchanalians made them all very welcome guests. Tamara was able to inform them that the
Emperor had removed their Restricted Planet status and that the Aldershott Starship Company
would start a yearly service to connect Bacchanalia with the rest of the galaxy.
After a time however, Tamara became anxious to leave, for one thing, she remembered that
Standardia, for all its people’s pig-headed ignorance and stupidity, was also in need of their help,
but mainly because she got fed up with the Bacchanalians’ insistence on calling her ‘Tammy’.
There was a large crowd to greet the Jubilee Endeavour when it arrived at Standardia City
Interplanetary Spaceport, and puzzled looks on the faces of the crowd when Tamara stepped down
from the ship.
“You again?!” cried an aghast and amazed Governor Stardust.
“Me again!” agreed Tamara.
“Who again?” asked a puzzled Jeff Clintwood.
“Her! Again!” declared the Governor.
“What? You’re bothered again? Here we are come to help you out, and we get no thanks,” said
Mark.
“We don’t need your help, buster. We can stand on our own two feet. We don’t need no help
from nobody.”
Mark counted up the negatives and decided that that meant that no help was needed.
“So, you were expecting someone else?”
“Sure am, buster. You just stick around and see how we Standardians sort things out.”
Leaving the Spaceport, Tamara led her friends back to her aunt and uncle’s house, where
introductions were made all around. It was there that, shortly afterwards, they watched as a second
starship that day descend from the clear blue sky to land next to the Jubilee Endeavour.
When Barcla the Hoard stepped from his ship, he cast a brief suspicious glance at the other craft,
before turning to smile broadly and magnanimously to the waiting crowd. If he had expected
rapturous cries of ‘Six more years!’, he was to be disappointed. There were a few cries and
whistles, but these came more out of habit than anything else. He detected a wariness in the crowd.
He had been told about the gold, from Greenboi’s visit the year before, and he knew that he had
a problem, for these yokels would expect him to take gold in settlement of his loan, and for him to
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be thankful for it, but he no intention of ever having the loan redeemed. It was his hold over the
planet, but an outright refusal of the gold would make these people resentful as, in their simple
fashion, they regarded the gold as valuable and expected everyone else to do so as well.
“Greetings, people of this fair land of Standardia. You prosper as ever, I see,” he boomed
beneficently.
“Greetings, Mr Barcla. Welcome to Standardia, sir,” returned Governor Stardust.
Trailed by Barcla the Hoard’s guards, the party of host and guest processed up to the Governor’s
residence. Here a table was laid out on the porch, and on this table lay two almost even sized piles
of paper currency and a pile of gold coins. Governor Stardust picked up the slightly larger of the
two piles of notes.
“Your interest, Mr Barcla, sir. Six hundred and forty dollars!”
Barcla accepted the money without demur.
“And now,” continued the Governor, enthusiastically, with one eye on the crowd. “I am pleased
to announce that we are able to redeem your loan entirely!”
“Three thousand two hundred Standardian dollars or Imperial Credits,” Barcla the Hoard
reminded him easily.
“Yessir. Here we have six hundred dollars in your issue of paper money and two thousand six
hundred dollars in our new gold dollars!”
An immense cheer went up around the crowd, accompanied by the standard Standardian
hollering, yelping and whistling. Barcla the Hoard waited for the euphoria to quieten down.
“Gold, Governor? I have no wish to purchase gold. It is very heavy and not very useful.”
“Ha ha, Mr Barcla, sir. You ain’t exactly buying it. It’s money. We’re using it to pay off your
loan.”
“No no, my dear Governor. Gold is a commodity and like any commodity its value lies with its
usefulness to the buyer. I have no use for it. It certainly cannot be used to redeem a debt. It is not
legal tender.”
Governor Stardust grew anxious and somewhat angry.
“You ain’t gonna accept gold?!”
“My dear fellow, I have no use for it.”
Stardust picked up the remaining six hundred dollars.
“This is all the goddam paper money we got left! Next year, when you come a-calling, how’re
we gonna pay you six hundred and forty dollars out of this?!”
“My dear Governor, do not distress yourself. The way out of your difficulty is very simple. You
need to earn more dollars or Imperial Credits. Now as it happens, I have no use for gold, but I do
have use for some of your land, let’s say ten thousand square kilometres, and I also need some of
your resources and people to build me a palace on that land.”
“How much?”
“Shall we say, a thousand dollars for the land and another thousand for the palace?”
“Two thousand dollars? That still ain’t enough to pay off the debt.”
“Ah, but that is just for one year, my dear Governor. I shall make further payments in
forthcoming years. So you will soon pay off your debt.”
“Yes, I guess. Still that is a lot of land for the money.”
“It is the barren wilderness that I’ll be buying. How much is that worth?”
“Well...”
Governor Stardust thought for a moment, and the words of that goddam Tammy Woodsawyer
echoed around his head, how she warned him that they’d end up having to sell their planet to
redeem their debts. Just then Tamara herself appeared.
“What do you want?” Stardust barked at her ungraciously.
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“Ten thousand square kilometres of Standardian wilderness,” she replied. “For which I am
prepared to pay sixty thousand Aldershott shillings, which are legal tender throughout the galaxy
and the equivalent of three thousand Imperial Credits.”
“What else do you want? You want a goddam palace, too?!”
“No, Governor. Just the wilderness.”
“And what will you do with it?”
“I shall turn it into the Aldershott Memorial National Park.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
Governor Tex Stardust stared into Tamara’s eyes. She was one uppity female, but then she was
royalty, and she was kinda cute in an upper-class sort of way. Maybe he would get to bed her after
all. He made his decision.
“It’s a deal.”
The End
*
Postscript
Barcla the Hoard could do nothing but accept the Aldershott shillings which, together with the
Standardian dollars, were sufficient to repay the loan. His bid to acquire a cosy little planet had
failed, but then the need for it had also receded.
The partial night-cloak around Tattoo One had reduced that planet’s temperature and it had
begun to rain like it had not rained in years. The planet became wet and comfortable again. Not
only that, but the rebellion petered out as the new government-created money wiped out the
Galactic Debt. Taxes were drastically cut and the new money allowed for an upsurge in economic
activity as new schools, hospitals, transportation, sanitation and power systems were created to
increase the real wealth of the galaxy.
The Credit Masters, shorn of their capacity to create money, remained rich and powerful as they
were allowed to retain their immorally-gotten gains. They became credit brokers, accepting deposits
from savers and lending out that money to borrowers, but for this they had to pay high rates of
interest to attract savers and they could afford to lend money only to those who would use their
loans wisely. A new culture of saving and financial prudence was born.
Most of the Credit Masters accepted this new state of affairs. For one thing, the stress and
competition that had been their hallmark began to dissipate, and most even began to enjoy life
again, spending time with family and friends, instead of forever striving to the be richest man in the
galaxy. In so doing they shook off the power of the Source to control them.
Mark and Tamara were reconciled with their father and, after the full night-cloak had begun its
transformation of baking hot Tattoo Two into a green and lush New Aldershott, they made the
planet their new home.
However, some of the Credit Masters were so far consumed by the dark side of the Source, that
they could not, or would not, follow this pattern. They bought the new Debt Star from Nathan West
(for another theme park, he assumed). It still possessed its fully working neutron-laser, and it was
set on course for New Aldershott...
Appendix 1: “Who said that?”
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“In the long run, we are all dead.” John Maynard Keynes, economist.
“Let me issue and control a nation’s money and I care not who writes its laws.” Mayer Amschel
Rothschild, banker, 1790.
“I am afraid the ordinary citizen will not like to be told that the banks can and do create money.
And they who control the credit of the nation direct the policy of governments and hold in the
hollow of their hand the destiny of the people.” Reginald McKenna as Chairman of the Midland
Bank, 1924.
“The process by which the banks create money is so simple the mind is repelled. Where something
so important is involved a deeper mystery seems only decent.” John Kenneth Galbraith, economist.
“Too much and too long, we seem to have surrendered community excellence and community
values in the mere accumulation of material things. Our gross national product, now is over 800
billion dollars a year, but that GNP - if we should judge America by that - counts air pollution and
cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage.
“It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for those who break them. It counts the
destruction of our redwoods and the loss of natural wonders in a chaotic sprawl. It counts napalm
and the cost of a nuclear warhead, and armoured cars for police who fight riots in our streets. It
counts Whitman’s rifle and Speck’s knife, and the television programs which glorify violence to
sell toys to our children.
“Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their
education, or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our
marriages, the intelligence of our debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither
our wit nor our courage; neither our wisdom nor our learning; neither our compassion nor our
devotion to our planets; it measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile.”
Senator Robert F. Kennedy, the inaugural speech of his Presidential campaign, 18 March 1968,
three months before his assassination.
“The privilege of creating and issuing money is not only the supreme prerogative of government,
but it is the government’s greatest creative opportunity. By the adoption of these principles, the
taxpayers will be saved immense sums of interest.” Abraham Lincoln, President of USA 1861-5,
created fiat money in the form of the ‘greenback’ and was assassinated.
Appendix 2: Interest-bearing debt money on the planet Earth
During the 21st century of the Common Era, the planet Earth also had most of its money created
as an interest-bearing debt, something in excess of 95% of the major currencies. This was a level
that was unsustainable, in that the amount of debt-free or fiat money in circulation was insufficient
to pay the interest on the debt-money. The Earth had got itself into a position of having massive
debts that were serviceable only through further borrowing.
Two choices faced the Earth at this moment in its history. It could either start trading with other
planets in the hope that it could off-load its debt onto them, or it could replace its debt-based money
system with a fiat-based system.
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At the time of writing, the adoption of a fiat-based system is not well regarded by most Earth
authorities, although curiously, the Earth has yet even to make inter-planetary contact and so is yet
in no position to trade off planet.
122