Rule 28 had been in effect for nearly twenty minutes. Leo, Regan, Galatea, and Handy had only just disembarked from the Rebellion and now stood in the shadow of the ship, on the hard, smooth spaceport surface. Lilliana, Dick, and the Nick Bradleys… being possessed of somewhat more organized minds… had already departed to seek out contacts or otherwise put their plans into motion.
Galatea had been prepared to do so since Lilliana gave her orders, but had lacked the initiative and resolve to step out into the relatively wide world of Rylea. The woman called Handy was in a somewhat similarly conflicted state, having taken Lilliana’s instructions to heart but not having any idea how to implement them. Her world had mostly consisted of various deep space mines, or the corridors of the ship. She rarely set foot–or hand, in her case–off ship.
Lack of confidence wasn’t Leo’s problem. He simply wasn’t prepared to do any work unless he knew damned well everybody else was, too.
Regan had simply been spending the time getting dressed, and re-spiking her hair.
Though the black skinsuit she wore would be considered an outfit in and of itself in most places, Regan had put on leather breeches and a pair of high-heeled riding boots, as well as a cape made out of a wolf’s pelt. Added to her mail shirt, this meant the only place the skinsuit showed through was her hands and her neck.
Around her waist was a weapons belt with a pair of knives, a throwing axe, and what appeared to be an ornate, intricately detailed replica of one of the oldest types of kinetic energy guns from Old Earth. Its design dated from what had been called the Age of Sail. Its inner workings were something else altogether.
The most striking part of the whole ensemble–apart from the whole ensemble–was the gold torc resting on her shoulders, in the form of a pair of serpentine dragons with their bodies twined around each other.
As she always did when Regan put on her full regalia, Galatea was mentally comparing her own garb to that of the wild mechanic, and finding the comparison favored her. Galatea only owned two outfits, jumpsuits that were identical except for their color… a gray one for every day wear and beige for when she felt like indulging in a bit of decadence.
The suits were insulated, climate-controlled, self-cleaning, tear-proof, fire-proof, and microbe-resistant. They included compact medical supplies, emergency rations, and microtools for a thousand tasks. They might have lacked a certain flair… the gray one, at least.. but they were functional, and utilitarian.
On the list of things which Galatea found arousing to contemplate–and it was considerable–functionality and utility were near the top.
“How exactly does a semi-literate mechanic from a backwater provincial planet afford something like that?” Galatea asked, indicating the torc.
“First off, Nova Hibernia isn’t a province o’ anything,” Regan said. “Second, even ‘backwater’ planets tend to have a bit o’ the bright stuff buried in ‘em, and third… son o’ a king, remember? I may have lost me throne and me birthright, like, but I still have to look the part, don’t I?”
“Well, I suppose there’s no sense putting this off any further,” Galatea said. “I am off. I hope the rest of you miscreants take heart from my example, that I’m willing to go forth and try my hardest to accomplish an impossible task because it is my duty, and for the good of my ship and the rest of the crew. Though I have few skills that may be readily marketed in such a short amount of time, and no idea whatsoever how I could even begin to earn money on my own, still I go…”
“Just remember to get the money up front,” Leo said.
“Right,” Galatea said.
“We could always sell her into slavery and wait for the buyer to pay us to take her back,” Leo suggested to Regan once Galatea was out of earshot.
“Couldn’t,” Regan said, shaking her head. “That’s the kind o’ trick as only works once, you know?”
“You’re probably right,” Leo said. “Well, I’m off to find a casino.”
“Ya gonna try to win a million credits or something?” Regan asked.
“That, or take a nap,” he said. “How about you?”
“Don’t rightly know, like,” Regan said. “But… it’s sure to be epic, whatever it is.”
“Right,” Leo said. “Just try not to come back with magic beans, or something.”
“Wouldn’t,” Regan said. “Beans is no good on an asteroid, ya know? Nowhere to plant ‘em, like.”
“Well, so long, Bard,” Leo said. “See you in a day.”
“Ta, the Cat,” Regan said, waving as Leo slunk away up the row of docked ships in the direction of the city proper. “Now, the question… how do we come up with one hundred an’ whatever thousand credits in a single day? Or better… a million and a half?” She seemed to be thinking out loud, or talking to herself, as there was nobody else present except for Handy, whom Regan scarcely seemed to notice, and who, lacking any clear indication that she was being spoken to, said nothing. “Yeah, that would be brilliant, like, wouldn’t it? Everyone else comes up bust, an’ here I come, all… hey, wait a tick. Handjob!”
“Yes, Boss?” the four-armed girl said, scuttling over.
Regan clucked and shook her head.
“I keep tellin’ ya, ya don’t have to call me that,” Regan said. “It’s ‘the Boss’, okay?”
“Sorry, the Boss,” Handy said, deferentially.
“What are we doin’ with the slag ya scraped off the engines, like?” Regan asked.
“If it please you, the Boss, it’s to be sent over to Alchemist’s Guild to sell for recycling, along with the remains of the old bars,” Handy said. She had a habit of inclining her head downward and flexing her arms slightly when she spoke, which gave an odd impression of curtseying.
“Right,” Regan said. “Has it gone out yet?”
“No, the Boss… at least, that is, I don’t think it has,” Handy said. “I was seeing to it when Ms. Corsair gave you the order to clean up the mess in her room. I was going to get right back to the slag when I finished with that, though… honestly I was.”
“Oh, don’t give it a second thought,” Regan said with a charitable air. “Listen, though, there’s been a change o’ plans. I need that slag, an’ the old bars, an’ I need ‘em right quick.”
“Of course, the Boss,” Handy asked. “But… if it’s not impertinent to ask…?”
“What the devil I want it for?” Regan prompted.
“Yes, the Boss,” Handy said. “Exactly.”
“Well, let me put it to ya like this… ya ever heard the tale o’ Aladdin an’ his wonderful lamp?” Regan asked.
“No, the Boss,” Handy said, ducking her head. “Sorry, the Boss.”
“How about Tom Sawyer, then?” Regan asked.
“I’m afraid not, the Boss,” Handy said.
“It’s an Ol’ Earth story, like… ‘twas first told by an Irishman, as called himself MacTwain,” Regan said. “Distant ancestor o’ mine, in fact… but oh, the stuff he had ol’ Tom get up to… I could tell ya stories. Well, I will. Like, there was this time that Tom was put to paintin’ up a fence, right? An’…”
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