Trekmaster. James B. Johnson

      The King frowned. “Hell with it. Everybody is dismissed. Reginald, you stay.”

      The man with the scars and eye patch nodded. The Queen Mother looked relieved and marched out, followed by the Queen and the rest of the ministers. Soon Sharon was alone with the Taxman, the Prince and the King—and the jester in the corner.

      The Prince sprawled in his chair and looked the King a challenge.

      “All right. Ambassador, what do you want to know?” The King’s voice was all business.

      “How? What? Why?” She had to tear herself away from the undercurrents here.

      “Reginald?” the King prompted.

      “Madam,” Reginald said with a deep voice, face failing to react to any of his own words, “when the King consolidated the planet, there had been many kingdoms, many city-states, many feudal holdings, so there was very much needed a source of funds; something other than the royal coffers from which to pay for governmental services. Thus came into being the Revenue Service Extension. The word Extension is there to show that it is indeed a part of the King’s planetary government.” He tried to smile and failed.

      Sharon knew that the RSE also served the King as a secret police function, one so insidious and effective he needed no other.

      “Our job,” continued Reginald sounding like an accountant reciting a well-rehearsed lecture, “is to provide funds for the operation of the Royal and provincial governments.”

      Prince Michale snorted.

      The King favored his son with a glare. “You see, Sharon, after Consolidation, I gave up most of my recently won and already held income-producing property and thus cannot support, personally or royally, the necessary functions of government. I still have a few farms, a mine or two, and interest in a few paltry commercial ventures. These I’ve kept for the security of my family and they aren’t sufficient for the vast payroll.”

      So she was Sharon now?

      Reginald was drawing an organizational chart: offices in each province reporting to him at the palace and he in turn reporting to the King. She noted that the Ethnarchs had no control over the tax agencies. “And the tax courts work independently also, with the King as the final arbiter, if necessary.”

      An org chart? On a planet with swords and crossbows? Next thing you know, they’ll be trotting out their “Management By Objectives.” If they got MBOs, God help ’em.

      All right, she had stalled long enough to make them uncomfortable. Play a card and see what happens. “And that is all?”

      She saw the King knew immediately what her point was. Michale nodded enthusiastically. Reginald eased his eye patch.

      “Miz Gold,” the King became formal again, “you must understand this is a monarchy. Instead of using the traditional spies and secret police and military to insure my word is carried out. we do it more subtly. Instead of imprisoning nonviolent offenders, we merely insure their cooperation by taxing the hell out of them. We even tax cities and ethnarchies. For instance, should a city not comply with a new sanitation code, the taxes start to rise until those standards are met. It works wonders.”

      “If those standards are still not met?” she asked.

      The King waved a hand, dismissing the problem. “We change officials. At any rate, once people began to realize we meant business, an amazing transformation occurred: the standard of living on Bear Ridge rose, the taxes dropped, and there was little trouble with people following royal decrees.”

      Sure, sure, Sharon interpreted. A group shows a trend toward disloyalty, and its taxes rise until they can’t afford them, then they’re disbanded and jailed for nonpayment. She’d seen it this morning with that fellow Valdez. On the other hand, she had to admit, it was an effective system. Much better than public hangings and medieval oppression. Yet, it was a system that could explode. “Your Majesty, perhaps it would be better if I went ahead with my interviews and research?”

      “Certainly. You need but to say it and whatever you require shall be provided.”

      “Sure,” said Prince Michale.

      Sure, thought Sharon simultaneously.

      4. TJ

      TJ was bored. He would rather review troops or do anything military than this.

      The throne room was three-quarters full. Petitioners gathered in one group to be brought forward by the herald. As this was an open session, those with complaints against local officials, ethnarchs, or tax courts stood waiting. TJ looked at the jester.

      Delancy Camp, the jester, squatted momentarily at the foot of the stairs to the throne. Other than the King, none of the royal family was present. TJ groaned as the pace of petitioners slowed even more. It was the jester’s job to be present when the King appeared in public, at any occasion: meetings (staff, ministerial, military), at group meals, during military formations and maneuvers, and all court sessions.

      Camp was a well-muscled man given to eating thousands of extra calories daily to counter the physical effort spent.

      His favorite quick energy producer was a chocolate wine, a secret recipe from his home town of Lonestar in the Ethnarchy of Bexar. Strange, TJ thought, Kellen Sing also came from Lonestar. When TJ asked, Camp replied he had been gone from the town for too many years, since he was a youngster not even into his teens, and so hadn’t recalled a child named Kellen. Or the family Sing.

      A new petitioner came forward, and the herald, reading from a paper, introduced him. The herald glanced distastefully at Camp. TJ grinned, knowing the jester’s rest period had ended. After all, he had a job to do.

      He sprang about in the open space in front of the King. To one side stood the petitioners and other claimants; to the other stood the general public who wished to view the proceedings, friends of the petitioners, and other interested parties, such as students observing.

      Camp stopped, folded lightly backward onto his hands, and began hand-walking along the edge of the crowd. TJ watched as the herald completed the formalities. A few women lurched backward when they realized the jester could see too much—those with taste enough to wear short dresses, TJ amended. But that wasn’t Camp’s purpose. From his vantage point he could see more than one would think. Weapons concealed from head-height might be visible to him. Muscles bulged and his bulky pantaloons threatened to rip at the crotch from his scissoring legs.

      By now all were so used to his presence they failed to see him.

      An ex-attorney was complaining to TJ about a prostitute.

      “Prostitutes are honest and hardworking.” pointed out the King. “Lawyers are not. What have you to say about that?”

      “Well, Your Majesty, I....”

      The jester bounced away. Almost weekly some ex-lawyer would come to court to complain about the King’s royal proclamation outlawing the profession. It used to be daily, but those were in the good old days. Before he had decided to try for the Fed Council seat.

      “What?” the King demanded.

      “Sire, people need protection, advice, procedural expertise.”

      “From other attorneys, you mean.” TJ’s voice had taken on a threatening tone, but this ex-attorney did not know it.

      “But, Sire....”

      “But nothing. You and your cronies almost wrecked this planet. Royal decrees, laws, provincial regulations are now written so that any normal person can understand them—and are not written by lawyers. Let me tell you one thing, mister.” TJ was off on his favorite subject. “You know Bear Ridge was settled by North Americans. You know why? I’ll tell you why. The North American economy went to hell. So the smart ones left. So-called experts messed it up. Just a bunch of honest attorneys tying up every system, from their own legal system to the economy, unions, the military. Just great. The Japanese ruled the economic world. Why?